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In my country, on August 1 of each year there is a grand festival. This year changes were made to the festival. These have not been warmly embraced by the public.
In light of this, in no more than 500 words, write a story centered around change. Feel free to take it any direction you like!
Deadline – midnight August 31
All Change!
First thing I noticed was the sodding light switch. I’m stood like a plonker in the door to the kitchen, whacking the wall and finding—nothing. No light switch. Just a plastered wall. I mean, bloody hell! How’s a man supposed to make his bleedin’ morning cuppa if he can’t see what’s what? After about a minute of pointless slapping, I reach round the other side. There the bugger is! But I’d swear blind, stack of bibles, on my kids’ lives, it was on the right and now it’s on the left.
Anyhow, now I can actually navigate the place, I head for the kettle. And that’s when I notice the next thing. All my life, long as I can remember, we’ve had a proper kettle. Metal jobbie that sits on the cooker with a real whistle on the spout. I said to my Irene, ‘Irene, my girl, we’re gonna have a proper kettle. Not one of them electrical thingummys. I want to hear a whistle when it’s ready. Gets me in the mood for my cuppa.’ And I gives her a slap on the behind and say, ‘Like I’m in the mood when I gives you a whistle.’ But she just has that look on her face. Sour.
But here I am, looking at a bleeding, plastic, plugged in, electric kettle. And no sign of the proper one anywhere.
I mean, Jeez!
But, a man’s gotta make the best of a bad lot. So I fill it, and push the little lever on the back. Then I grabs a cup and throws in a teabag. Milk. Need some milk.
Thank God the fridge is still where it’s supposed to be. I have a bit of a panic when I’m not sure whether the door opens the right way, but to tell the truth, I can’t really remember. Where’s the sodding milk? We have milk from Ted, delivered to the door three times a week, extra on a Saturday. Only customer in the street. There’s supposed to be a bottle in here. Hey ho. So I walk through to the front door and open it. Nope. Nothing on the step.
Back at the fridge I take another look because I can’t really believe it. And as I’m peering and blinking I see this carton. Asda, semi-skimmed. Why’s Irene gone and bought that, I wonder. Maybe she used all the proper milk. Maybe Ted’s late today.
I can’t see what’s happened to the jar of sugar, but there’s a little bowl of cubes, so I throw a couple of them in. Finally—finally, I can sit and enjoy my tea.
I hear Irene coming downstairs. She heads for the kettle. Something’s different.
‘New nightie, Irene?’
‘Who’s Irene? One of your little jokes, Arthur? I never understand them so I don’t know why you bother.’
Turns out she’s called Betty. And I’m Arthur and not Sam like I thought. Been Arthur for a couple of weeks now. It’s not so bad.
499 words (excluding title)
Change for the better?
I was born in Dovercourt, Essex, in my paternal grandparent’s house, to which they’d moved when my father was five years old. He, being still in the RAF was told of my arrival by telegram. The house was small; too small for five adults (my father’s sister lived there too) and baby, but we lived there for several years; the one attempt, after the arrival of my brother, to afford a house of their own ending in failure. My mother’s family, just down the road, in Harwich, were similarly skint and over-crowded.
Although aware of tensions, and of sorrow (my grandfather was ill for several years while we were there, (eventually dying soon after my sixth birthday) none of it added up to an ‘unhappy’ childhood, since throughout I felt myself both loved and very sheltered, since everywhere I went, every path I took, everyone I met – both grandad and aunt worked in a local stationer’s shop and all were active within their church – was known to whoever accompanied me.
In 1952 by some means, never explained to me, involving my grandad ‘pulling strings’, my parents had been able to buy what my mother called her ‘dream house.’
Then the library, where my Dad was librarian was closed down. A new job was sought and found some eighty miles away, in Hertfordshire. It necessitated leaving family and heading into the unknown.
For some months, he searched for somewhere for us to live, The one house he thought enough of a possibility to afford the fare for my mother to view, she turned down flat, Then news – and a copy of the plans! – of a still being built bungalow. I pored over them, thrilling at the chance to choose the colour of my bedroom walls. My mother stayed silent.1953, towards the end of July, a big green removal van came and packed up all but our beds. Next morning, we all sat in the front of the cab, me too excited to allow my mother’s mulish misery to spoil things; aware of my father’s foreboding.
Arrival, at the back gate, bungalow brick-built and raw, but fresh with paint and echoey uncovered floorboards, the surrounding ‘garden’ rough-dug earth and rubble, but new and exciting!
Not for my mother who took her time to accept the tiny, two- shop village, where she knew no-one.
For me it was sudden, heady freedom: While Mum was occupied with settling in, I was left to wander, timeless. To explore, lanes and alleyways, farm tracks and a recently-evacuated airfield, a whole range of architecturally interesting houses. All new. Never seen by anyone who knew me; something I’d never had before. From my ground-floor bedroom window I watched an entire new cast of unknown folk; overheard my mother’s suspicion-loaded questions about the smiling, black-curly-haired man who swept the roads and chatted to me, and decided that at the age of seven I could make my own mind up as to who I trusted.Apologies, Alex. 190 words. Unfinished, indulgent and undoubtedly DQ’d, but I wanted you to know I made an effort ?
UNTITLED
If he, Thomas Hicks, aged 52 years, 5 months and 19 days, were to try to recollect a time in the stoicism of his existence, when he had laughed such a laugh, he could not.
It was, for want of better description, a swallow dive of a laugh, that is, one that had erupted unexpectedly, energetically, and had taken wing, choreographed for freedom – soaring over telegraph poles, skimming over hedgerows, pitching and dipping with a lightness of heart and of wing.
And if he, the same Thomas Hicks Esq., were to closely examine his years of carefully indexed memories for such a musical note as could bring tears to his eyes, he could not.
This mellow choir of trees, this corridor of birdsong, this purity of sound – his heart, his breath, his movement, an orchestration so uplifting, he believed he could fly.
Amelia. It could only be Amelia who had wrought this change. She, of the flour-dusted fingers and the soft, peanut-butter eyes, whose voice was a decantation of rich, ruby-red port, and who swept through his kitchen on a cloud of icing sugar and the scent of orchard-fresh apples.
Upwards and Downwards
An unexpected ray of light pierced the blanket of cloud which hung over the otherwise dull cemetery. A plot empty of earth with planks and ropes ready to lower a coffin screamed yet another death.
Had the reaper taken someone too soon? I’d say definitely not but those around me would disagree.
‘Northern Hannah’ had been fun. Always the first to receive an invitation, she would choose carefully which social events we attended and she didn’t care who she offended in the process. A social climber and definitely my type of person. In some ways I was sad at the loss.
After the short service the gravedigger shovelled a pile of earth onto the coffin. In the movies there would be a hollow thud as the soil hit the mahogany. It would reverberate between the mourners, maybe some autumn leaves would spiral as they fell on sodden grass. Women in black stilettos would cling to men in dark overcoats.
For Hannah I’d chosen a light wicker basket which sifted the soil as it landed.
I jumped as her sister Alice touched my shoulder.
‘Hey you, it’s time to leave.’
I nodded.
‘Mum and I were just talking about the day Hannah brought you home and announced she was going to become Mrs Liam Marshall. She was so in love with you.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘You’ve been the perfect addition to our family and we love you very much.’
I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my already dry eyes.
A few hours later I was driving down the M1. I fiddled with the windscreen wipers turning them on then off. I’d have preferred heavy rain to clear the air, or maybe just to cleanse my thoughts.
I’ll need to keep in touch with northern Hannah’s family. At least until the life insurance payout had been settled. I liked Alice. Maybe I’d give her a few quid.
I pulled into the services and exchanged the wallet in the centre console of my car for the one in the tool compartment in the boot. Pulling back onto the M1 I repeated my southern name. ‘Liam Marston, Liam Marston..’
Now to turn my attention to southern Hannah who would be planning our meal. She”ll be wearing a low cut top and a short skirt. After dinner we’ll have a smooch on the settee then run up the stairs to bed. Just what I need! I tapped my thumb against the steering wheel. Maybe later tonight I should give southern Hannah a few sleeping tablets. Just to disorientate her.
In a few months I can look for two women whose names begin with I. Perhaps Ingrid, India or maybe Isabelle.
I glanced down as my phone rang. A second later I careered into the car in front of me.
The sky above was blue…
‘Come with me.’ Northern Hannah smiled. Her hand reached upwards through the fierce flames and dragged me downwards.
Burn
The day the power went off for the last time, Dad started on about the country again.
“When did this country change?” he growled. “Things never used to be like this. This is Britain, how did it get so the electric doesn’t work?”
Gemma didn’t understood when he talked like this. It was like he felt the whole island was somehow the same. Gemma didn’t feel the same as people from Astley Bridge, never mind Manchester. When people talked about London it was like hearing about the Roman Empire or something.
And hot summers were nothing unusual. This was the third in a row. Two months without rain, and it had been a dry spring too. The fires on the moor had started after no more than a week this time. Some people said the peat had still been smouldering since last year.
Summer meant helicopters. Their distant thok-thok-thok was comforting, though she rarely saw them through the smoke. The sound carried, telling that they were out there dumping water on the fires. At first Dad laughed, and sang ‘Ride of the Valkyries’, dum-de-da-daa-dum – from a film, Mum said, before a black look from her silenced him.
Then the thokking grew less, and on day sixty-two, stopped.
“Army’s gone south,” Dad said when she asked. “Too many boats crossing the Channel.”
All their windows were closed, even in this heat. Had to, with the smoke. Thicker than before. She lay on her bed in a strappy top and shorts, missing little fan school gave everyone before classes were suspended – the battery expired on day 74. Couldn’t use the bath to cool down – Dad filled it with water when the army left. Just as well he did. The taps stopped on day 80.
Gemma wished she’d stood outside when it last rained. What did rain even feel like? The thought of water made her swallow. It was like there was a potato in her throat.
Downstairs, Mum was at the table. A tear traced through the dust on her face and dripped off her chin. For a moment Gemma wanted to lunge and catch the droplet before it hit Mum’s sleeve and soaked away. She tried to speak but her tongue wouldn’t unstick. The clockwork radio was hissing in the background. When she heard the words from it she wanted to run upstairs, but made herself sit and held Mum’s hand.
…Local government has issued orders for citizens not to attempt to leave. At least twelve people died earlier today when their vehicles became stuck in melted tarmac and caught fire…
“They’re going to let us die,” Mum said. So calm. Gemma wanted to scream for a moment, and then it passed and she just felt tired.
Near the end of the road, a new pillar of smoke unsunk into the sky, blooming outwards at some invisible layer to join the pall covering the city.
485 words (this is adapted from something I wrote a few years ago but it feels relevant so here goes)
This was a tough decision. All were amazing and enjoyable stories.
Athelstone – the impact of the small changes resonated with me
Sandra – I liked the helplessness the MC feels initially and that internal change at the end
Seagreen – capturing the elation without naming it and the imagery was awesome
Clebs – loved the shift from the mournful opening to that sinister turn
Daedalus – I enjoyed how the same event impacted everyone in different ways
It was a hard decision, but the win goes to Clebs!
Congratulations, Clebs, a well-twisted tale. And thanks Alex for a prompt which produced such variety.
Well done @clebs. I said it’s excellent – and it is!
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