In Loving Memory

He received the news of his grandfather’s death on Monday morning at the office. When he told his colleagues, one asked if they had been close. He was unable to answer, but the question stayed with him.
That evening, he strolled around his flat in his underwear thinking. He had known his grandfather his whole life, but never really knew him. What did that mean? Should he be grieving? The question seemed strange. It gave him a weird feeling, so he went for a run.

On the day of the funeral he took a train to Egham. The town’s name was like the food it brought to mind: egg and ham. There was nothing particular about it. It was unimaginative and unexciting.
As his uncle gave the eulogy, he heard sniffing down the aisle. His sister and cousins were crying. Should I be crying too, he asked himself, but then realised he wasn’t feeling any recognisable emotion so he couldn’t cry even if he wanted to.

Following a prompt from his dad a few days later, he visited his gran. She lived in a small newly built house near Egham station. It smelt of mothballs and her collection of thimbles rattled each time a train passed.
He told her to relax; he would make her lunch. She said there was some shepherd’s pie in fridge, but he only found a bottle of off milk and some butter. He checked the freezer. It was full of ready meals, one being shepherd’s pie.
He had to chip through a layer of ice to get it out. A maximum of two months it said the meal should be frozen, but it had to have been in there at least six.
Gran, he called, maybe we should go to the pub.
No answer came, so he popped his head around the door. She was staring into space.
Shall we go to the pub?
After a moment she turned to him, Oh no, dear. Not on a Sunday.
But it’s out of date.
She looked confused. Your grandfather only bought it the day before he passed.
He called his Dad, who said she had been eating like that years. If the rubbish she ate hadn’t killed her yet, it wouldn’t now.
She sat squeezed between the dinner table and sideboard, fumbling the steaming shepherd’s pie around her plate. He couldn’t watch, so he went to the loo.
It smelt of stale urine. Beneath his feet the pink carpet had patches of yellow stains.

When he got home, he paused when he saw the books on his coffee table. They reminded him of his gran’s large print books. He had asked her about them and she had spoken with some excitement, explaining the story she was reading. It was sad; for all her excitement the story seemed mundane and pointless.
Thinking this gave him a weird feeling that he didn’t like, so he went for a run.

At work the next day, his Dad called. His Gran had had a fall.
He left the office and got the first train to Egham, feeling what he later recognised as panic and anxiety. But it was alright because she was ok.

By Dominic Edwards

A Winter Wonderland

I must have been daft making a run for it in the snow.
Even dafter, though, sitting around waiting to be hung.

How far have I come? Not even a mile and stuck under some bleeding bush. And why pick one with spikes all over it. Can’t get any further in, brambles stuck up my arse and hair caught in the branches. Mind you, after three months without a bloody mirror no one`s going to look their best.

What did I think was going to happen, climb over the wall, nobody misses me, stroll to the road, hail a passing drayman and pay him with love in Rochester? I must have been stupid.

I didn’t even mean to kill the silly cow. I loved her for Christ sake. Best sister I ever had but she shouldn`t have taken the piss especially when she knew I was in the mood.

What’s that noise? Oh shit, not dogs. What do they need bloody dogs for? In this snow even someone as stupid as Tickner could follow my footprints. Can’t get any further under this bush. Bloody hell it`s wet and so bleeding cold.

I bet they’ll have their guns, the fat bastards. They reckon the last one to try this got shot giving up, so that’s it, no giving up. But where to go? If I can just make it to the road…

The last ten minutes of life were turning out to be remarkably rational (and cold).

Part of the problem is getting out from under this bush but here goes… That`s it. Out. Bleeding but ignore it, just bloody run.

Water. Yes that’s it, water puts dogs off. Jump.

No chance.

Up to my waist in water - not good. My bloody ankle hurts too. Keep moving… shit its cold. Get to the bank. Up, go on push. Push. It’s not working. I can’t do it. Please, please let me make it. God please. I didn’t mean to kill her. I loved her and, any way, they shouldn’t hang women. They should hang bleeding Tickner. Him and those like him. They treat you like rats just ‘cause you’re in prison and they love killing.

Go down river - it'll be easier. Shit they’re close. Bleeding dogs. They’re not going to come in here though. I’ll drown the bastards! That’s what I’ll do, Bugger ‘em, I’ll drown myself. Tickner’s not having the pleasure and I’m not going back. Stones. I need stones, heavy stones, these aren't heavy enough. This one is. Hold it in my arms. Cross them, I bet that’s what you’re supposed to do.

They’re so close. The dogs, they’ve found me but they won’t come in the water.

Sorry God, I really did try to be good. Sorry Mum, sorry Grandad, sorry Francis, love you…sorry baby Michael…. See you all in heaven. They’re here, Come on Beth…Do it….Go…Now.

By James Kruschev

No need to explain

I'm running down Embankment in my unbuttoned black-tie suit. A car just beeped at me so I waved, although I didn't recognise its driver. What a cool pleasant night. She made a fuss of course, about me popping out. ‘I’m going to go for a quick run,’ I said to her. We were outside some out-of-order men’s toilets I’d followed them up to. She was still pretending it hadn’t happened, reapplying make-up, checking her reflection for something or other. ‘Did you have something in your eye?’ I said. It was possible. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ she said. I felt a little annoyed. ‘I mean, was he trying to get something out of your eye?’ She wiped a hand up her face so that lipstick she’d just applied made a red moustache of her upper lip. ‘No,’ she said. I wasn’t sure what she meant by that so I just said, ‘Well, no need to explain now anyway.’ Then I decided to go for a run.

I stopped quickly just now to catch my breath. Traffic hurtles past – lorries, taxis, buses. They sort of roar like boisterous animals. I wonder whether I can make it across without stopping. There’s a bit of a gap coming up. Don’t suppose it would hurt to try.

Written by David Jackson

Healthy Living

“This,” Christine muttered as she tied her running shoes, “is an exercise in futility.” The shoes had been a gift from Max, meant to seal their joint commitment to a healthier lifestyle. She had been given more romantic birthday gifts, but she had to admit they were excellent shoes. She had extra-wide feet, and heretofore sneakers had always pinched her little toe so that she would return from running and find the imprint of that toenail in its neighbor’s side. This had quite discouraged her from running.

Frankly, it took a hell of a lot less to discourage her.

As she swung one foot up on the fence post and leaned towards her flexed toe, she wondered if she should just tell Max she’d been running. She could take his trip as a little sabbatical of her own, three days off from weights and sit-ups and sweat dripping into her eyes. Lord knows she could sure use the time to work on the seating chart and go over the band’s play list.

For some reason she could not quite determine, Christine brushed aside that possibility and turned to start down the sidewalk. She took a few walking steps before she accelerated into a jog. She was not entirely sure her jog was actually any faster than the walk had been.

Was this what their life together would be? she wondered. Would she always feel she had to justify the smallest of things? Would she really never again simply buy buttered popcorn at the theater because she felt like it, without first wondering whether Max wanted it plain? Would there be days she could skip brushing her teeth, or would she spend the whole day worried that he would judge her, even though he never had before?

Her pace had picked up a little since she’d turned off Hydraulic Road. There was less traffic here, but there was no sidewalk. Max said running on the dirt by the side of the road was better for her joints, but Christine had a bit of a balance problem. She actually was quite adept at tipping over while standing perfectly still, so she was not terribly enthusiastic about uneven surfaces with crags hidden under a cover of autumn leaves. She stuck to the road.

It did feel nice once she got going, she had to admit. And it was only 30 minutes out of her Saturday morning. Getting started was really the hard part; after that, she just let the momentum carry her forward. She was starting to feel good, downright virtuous, in fact. She’d get back home, take a quick shower, and breeze through the papers she had to grade while riding high on the endorphins.

Turning left off of Emmet Road, she slowed to a walk in the parking lot. She had a moment of indecision before she pulled open the door to the Krispy Kreme. After all, the “hot” light was on.

“Exercise in futility,” she mumbled, pulling three dollars out of her pocket.

Written by Emily Rosenbaum

Short story inspiration

Short of short story inspiration? Someone steered me towards Anthropology by Dan Rhodes the other day. It's a collection of 100-word short stories written in 1998. Here an interesting excerpt from the book with a description from Rhodes about what went into writing it.

Forgotten Skin

She prodded the rain-stained magazine with her stick and let the wind catch one of the pages, turning it over. It was full of young bodies – four all together. The shock was like cold hands on her stomach. She took a breath. Still, she could not take her eyes away. She had never seen it like that. Like a stranger watching. Curious, she tried to mimic the woman’s position – one leg straight, the other stretched out to her side. She placed her stick with both hands to support herself but the hip ground stiff almost immediately. Wincing, sucking in through clenched teeth, she began slowly working her hip backwards and forwards. The magazine flapped shut again. When the stiffness in her leg had eased she put her weight back on it. She pushed the cover again with her foot and let the wind flip the pages over, one at a time. They were indistinct at speed - stupid dirty collections of nakedness. She jabbed her stick in with unfamiliar keenness and it folded and ripped a soft wet buttock. Another scene. Just two men and a woman this time. Big thighs both of them. Disgusting. She turned and looked around. She should pick it up and put it in a bin somewhere, out of harm’s way. If young eyes saw this … If her youngest grandson, Ben… She felt ridiculous bending down. This was why she did not bend down any more – she was awkward, every movement threatened to throw her over.

It lay open on her table. She was panicking and it was silly to panic over such a stupid little thing. If she put it in the bin, Howard the volunteer might find it when he took it out on Tuesday. In the old days she could have burnt it on the fire. But she only had the two-bar electric thing now. She had it open on a new page, a new position. She had done that once. Never with Harry though. It was not something Harry would ever have approved of. But then that was the problem with Harry. She thought of the only two before him. Poor Ralph. He had died early on in the war. After that Jasper, an American GI. He had been black like the one on the table. This one looked stupid though and big chested. She shut it and breathed in, and tried to straighten her back even though osteoporosis saw to it that she could not. Then she breathed out and opened it again on another page. She would keep it in Harry’s old toolbox. No-one would look in there. Not until they came to clear out the house and then she would be dead. Her sons would think it had been Harry’s and forgive an old man his bad habits. She felt a pleasant flush in her cheeks and a relief, staring at their bodies. It was like remembering something that she had never thought she would forget.

Written by David Jackson

Submit your short stories for review

We are now accepting short stories at Shortfolio. Whether you've written something heartfelt and pure, or cynical and born out of despair; hammered out during a lunch hour, or perfected and sat on for weeks - we want to read your stories.

Accepted stories will be posted on the site for people to read and comment on.

N.B. Stories must be 500 words long or less.

If you have an questions contact us at shortfolio@gmail.com.

Happy writing!

Why write short stories?

Although the art of short story is admired by many, it is bought by relatively few so there aren't many serious avenues open to the short story writer. But, this should not put us off. Short stories may not be as lucrative as in Chekhov's time, when he wrote short stories to support himself and his family, but there is still a world of experimentation in fiction that is more alive in short story writing than anywhere.

A training ground for writers
Short stories are a great training ground to aspiring novelists and fiction writers of all types. The essential elements of fiction - beginning, middle and end - are condensed. In this frenetic environment writers are simultaneously freer to experiment and more pressured to resolve the ideas that they imagine. And in five minutes, a story might be written that has ten times more resonance than one that took the writer weeks to perfect.

Just write
Most importantly for writers, short stories service that impulse to produce works of fiction on a regular basis. Because they do not necessarily require planning, they are a great exercise in the artistic disciplines of fiction. Character, voice, plot and pace all can be afforded outings - separately or en force. They can be an insightful record of an actual event or a sketch of a fictional character that came to mind on the bus to work. This permission to produce is what makes good short story writing so exciting and fresh to read.

Getting feedback
Another benefit of writing short works is that it is easy to find readers to comment on your work. Longer works are harder to get people to read and take time for a potential critic to digest. An essential part of developing as a writer is to find out how what you write affects other people. Few of us writers, if any, start writing great works of fiction straight away - no matter how substantial the raw talent. The more you write and receive feedback the more you are likely to improve as a fiction writer.

So if you've written something and submitted it, read something from someone else and offer any comments you can think of.

The shorter the better...

'A good short story is a work of art which daunts us in proportion to its brevity.... No inspiration is too noble for it; no amount of hard work is too severe for it. '

- Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (1844–1911)