Watching the play from backstage

The ability to read minds is nowhere near as cool as it sounds.

Growing up I was an intelligent kid but as surly as all get up. I had my reasons. Imagine living every day of your life with a mild headache. Sounds do-able I know, but I'm talking ceaseless day and night fuzzy pain for 13 relentless years.

I was 13 years old when I first realised that I was the only one who was hearing the hum of other people's thoughts. 13 years to figure out what that hum was and that it was unusual.

Everything changed there and then. It was as if I'd been listening to white noise for all of my life, like there was a radio on in the background somewhere, and then suddenly a 'transmission' came through.

I don't know whether I accidently 'tuned in' or whether it was due to the strength of the thoughts, but one particularly nasty playground fight later and the floodgates were open.

Now every conversation is like a movie whose plot has been ruined for me. It's like I'm watching a film that I've never seen before but nonetheless I am, for some reason, watching it with director's commentary turned on - getting all the background trivia at the expense of the content.

Sorry about all the movie analogies but I really don't tend to do much else with my spare time than go to the cinema. Peace and quiet for me is watching a generic action movie - high octane, low plot density. Something to make everyone around me shift their minds into neutral.

I'm not really able to talk to many people about what I can do because it tends to make them start thinking about what they are thinking about, which can be absolutely deafening, not to mention tedious. Plus, people who know generally don't like to hang around me too much. Can't really blame them.

The few people who know and stick around nonetheless sometimes ask why I don't become a detective or something, and use my powers for the greater good. I figure, why should I?

Do you have any idea how depressing it is listening to the thoughts of so-called normal people? I really don't want to spend my life in the company of criminals, psychos and the all the poor bastards who spend their working life staring into that particular abyss.

So instead I teach little kids. Their minds may be loud and annoying and juvenile but the beauty of these guys is how closely what they say resembles what they think.

Because that's the thing I can't stand. Imagine if you immediately knew without a doubt every time someone lied to you. Do you even realise how often people lie? 'It's so nice to see you', 'Sorry mate, no change today', 'There's absolutely nothing to worry about', 'I love you'. Day after day after day.

What I wouldn't give for a little blissful ignorance.

By Mark Clarke

(Read all Mark's stories at ClarkeMyWords.blogspot.com.)

Separation

The bright yellow candle flame flickered in its place, casting feeble rays if warmth upon the dirty walls of the underground cave, luminating the musty dust particles in the air… My heart palpitated in anxiety as seconds passed with mounting fear. Tom had never been this long out before.

Three years. Three long bitter years had I not stepped out of this cavern once, fearing that if I were to be seen by the dreaded Kempeitais, never will I ever have the chance to live the day, to feel the warmth of the bright sunlight wash over my face again.

War had turned our once beautiful and peaceful homeland into a battlefield, strewn with debris and corpses. The fighting had torn families apart and mine was of no exception. A happy family of four that had lived quietly in a small hut in Jurong was now forced to abandoned their home and hide for survival. My son, a brave fourteen-year-old child, was sacrificed in his bid to save the rest of the family. When the Japanese police had tried to capture us, he caused a diversion to go after him instead, a memory that always manages to bring heart-wrenching tears to my eyes.

Fidgeting nervously in my seat, my mind was forced to race through all the possible theories that could have held up my husband, each more dreadful and daunting than the last. He had tried to sneak out and gather food before, but never taking as long as this before.

“Mummy… where is daddy? I wonder what took him so long…” enquired my fifteen-year-old daughter, Sarah. Her face was a picture of worry against the dimly lit walls. I paused in my thoughts and told myself to relax. It seemed crucial to not stir up the fear that was slowly crawling into our hearts.

Just then, as if in response, a loud crunching sound was heard. Tom appeared in the doorway, clutching his ribs in apparent pain. Such a powerful wave of relief had swept though me that, for a moment, I felt light-headed. Without further ado, Sarah and I rushed forward to his aid.

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped at a better look at Tom. The warm glow that had flared inside me at the relief of his return was extinguished as something icy flooded the pit of my stomach. Tom was puckered up in pain and his face was drained of all colour. There was a gaping puncture wound at his sides and blood was trickling down fast, leaving a trail of bloody footprints and a dark pool where he rested. A little cry of horror slipped through Sarah before she could stop herself at the sight of her father. Tom collapsed into my arms. Warm blood seeped into my clothing.

“Honey… I’m so glad I could make it back… to see you again. The Japanese soldiers are fighting a losing battle. The war is won… we don’t have to … hide anymore… I’m sorry… I don’t think I have … much time… left…” Tom murmured. Streams of tears started to pour from my eyes. I had imagined this scenario, yet I was not prepared for the molten wave of dread and panic that seemed to burst through my stomach at the sound of the growing weak rasp of his voice.

With the last ounce of strength he possessed, Tom whispered into my ears “Live… well… ”

A feeling of emptiness gripped my heart as his hand slipped from my embrace...
Eyes blurred with tears, I understood perfectly. It was time to let go.

By Kathy Kitty

New story: "The Lake" - just in time for Halloween...

It's getting closer and there's nothing he can do about it. He can hear it out there in the dark, snuffling and shuffling ever closer. He looks down at the wadded cloth that he has pressed to his side, now completely crimson-soaked. Thinking about it makes it somehow worse and his head starts to swim.

'No time for that now' he growls quietly and pulls himself to his feet with considerable effort. He wonders for a moment why he's even bothering to run, what he could possibly have left to live for after tonight. Worry about it later, he thinks with bleak pragmatism, survive now.

From across the lake lights shine and shimmer their way across the breeze-rippled water - dazzling outstretched fingers of civilisation. His nerves fire protests through his body as he lurches forward as stealthily as he can. Stumbling almost immediately, he feels something rip beneath the wadded cloth and an unwelcome sticky warmth spreads quickly across his finger tips.

A sharp gurgling sniff sounds out nearby followed by a silence that roars in the man's ears. For a moment there is no sound. Anywhere. He holds his breath wishing he could hear that rattling wheeze, place its position. Far off a child's cry skips weakly across the tranquil lake and fades away.

He stumbles on with a queasy lethargy imposing itself more and more upon his panicked state of mind. He's haemorrhaged beyond the point of caring and crashes toward the water's edge with a clumsy primal need, stumbling his snapping way through the noisy undergrowth. He ignores the low growl of the predator padding softly after.

Splashing into the shallows of the lake he stares with unfocussed eyes at the yellow warmth of the lake houses - so frustratingly close. He falls to his knees and lets his head loll back until the clear night starlight fills his tear-choked eyes. There's a delicate splish behind him announcing the predator's arrival.

His head rolls forward in despairing resignation until he sees salvation. A row boat is drifting in the lake not ten metres away. He has no time to think it through, no inclination even. He sees a chance to survive and without further thought leaps to his feet, fighting through the water to reach the boat.

The predator, reacts to this sudden movement with practiced and ruthless efficiency. Simply instinct.

A sudden, snarling flurry of splashing activity is heard and a man starts upright in his row boat.

'What was that?' he asks.

'What was what? Oh it could have been anything, Alan.' his companion replies shortly buttoning her blouse, 'Come on, let's get back, it's getting cold out.'

'Ok,' Alan replies and sets his oars before stopping a moment. A short way away he sees a figure dragging something from the lake back into the darkness of the midnight forest.

'Now Alan,' snaps the woman, trembling.

Alan shakes the sight from his thoughts and turns his head toward the warm yellow lights of home.

By Mark Clarke

Request for autumn/winter 2008 short story submissions

Shortfolio is currently looking for more 500-word short stories, following some amazing submissions over the summer.

So if you've got a short story hidden on your hard drive or floating around in the dark recesses of your mind, now's the time to send something in. Just email it to shortfolio@googlemail.com.

Happy writing...

A Close Encounter

The Sidhar sat preening his elaborate moustache, staring out of the window in deep contemplation; his stature and girth took up most of the compartment. Perhaps he’s fifty five, I mused, though as strong as a bullock. He was a Sikh - a green turban and an officer’s insignia - probably of Pathan descent, those that vanquished the British and later repelled the Russians.

Suddenly he turned, ‘what country sir?’
'Ar British, good. I’m an officer in the Indian army. How do you like our India?’ He hardly gave you the chance to utter more than a few syllables before he started up again. Just then V, my travel partner, returned; quite a tall girl. His eyes shot out as he scanned her lithe torso, then addressing me, ‘she’s your wife?’
‘Yes,’ I acquiesced, unconvincingly; we kept up this charade in India.

Touching his moustache his eyes tracked V’s respiratory movements; V put on her dark glasses. His wife and teenage daughter entered the compartment, attired in colorful saris and dupatas. They began to fluster over their luggage. The officer lurched forward, dominating the frame, speaking confidentially, ‘we must look after the ladies, no pranks sir. I am just along the way with my fellows. If you’d care for a tot of whiskey …’

‘It’s only eleven,’ I managed to put in. With that he stood, stony faced, as if I’d insulted his honor. I noticed his short sword, a relic of Sikh gallantry.

Lord, he thinks he’s back in the Raj, I thought.

It was an Ac compartment, 3 tiers. We relaxed, lunch was served and we ordered an extra 300grammes of curd. V placed the curd on the upper bunk. We ate, and V went to wash up. The ladies reclined on their adjacent bunks, mother pulled her dupata over her head, for modesty’s sake, and they both snoozed.

I thought I’d take a nap myself. What combination of cognitive thought processes led me to commit such an act, I have as yet failed to deduce, though in future I will endeavor to be more considerate whilst in possession of viscous liquids on Indian railways. Placing one hand on the rail, I made an athletic leap onto the upper bunk.

The plastic bag of curd went, ‘bang!’ The curd shot up the wall, and spewed whey through the air like shrapnel. Quickly I took off my T shirt and mopped the bunk and wall. I then turned and looked below – horror of horrors – beloved daughter and mother, splattered with specks of curd. The Indian mutiny - Pathan tribes men charging into battle - stark images dashed before my eyes.

V returned, and we went into muffled peels of childlike laughter. Thankfully, the 2 ladies lay sound asleep; one strand of the girl’s fringe coated thick with curd. V saved the day, tentatively cleaning the ladies up as they moaned, and so enabling my head to remain intact.

By Steve Jones

90 degrees north

My love affairs were starting to get out of hand. My love affairs, and my drinking. There was nothing for it but to run away to the North Pole.

Johansen and I surveyed the endless icy wastes. That was our job now. All the same, we often found ourselves overwhelmed with emotion. We would sit on our snowmobiles and weep at the immense, impossible snowy beauty of it all.

“Have some coffee”, Johansen said, handing me the flask, “it has brandy in it. Like always.”

He had left behind a wife and a six-month-old baby girl to come here, to the end of the world. The money was good and they were planning, eventually, to buy a house back in Sweden.

Dr Kristina Gjenistad stalked the corridors of Ice Station B. In her native Norway she was an Olympic cross country skier, a swimmer, a runner of marathons and ultra-marathons. Ice-bound now for six months of the year, her smooth, muscular thighs still strained to escape the limitations of her tight regulation uniform and carry her, stotting like a gazelle, off across the sea-ice.

I was a little bit obsessed with Dr Kristina Gjenistad. I wanted to make love to her on an ice floe while the aurora borealis crackled and whooped over our heads. I invented excuses to go to the clinic to see her.

“My hand’s a bit sore today”, I’d say, or “I’ve hurt my ankle”, or “do you need any more medical supplies?”

Unfortunately she’d seen my kind coming a mile off all her life and would have nothing whatsoever to do with me. She recommended aspirin, hot baths, and keeping off the affected limb. I argued that these things were of little use in cases of unrequited love, but she remained unimpressed.

Polar bears were reported. We posted a twenty-four hour armed guard. First thing every morning it was my job to go out and clear the rime that had gathered on the anemometers.

Through the dark months of February and March we played cards and drank and outside the wind screamed by at one hundred and fifty miles an hour in the interminable polar night. The temptation, sometimes, to just step outside and surrender oneself to the elements was acknowledged. We watched each other for the telltale signs and waited for the spring.

There were talks on scientific subjects, animal husbandry, literature. We discussed “The Arctic as Metaphor”. The Scandinavians used their block vote and the motion was defeated.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing here anymore,” said Johansen, as we watched the watery sun come up for the first time in three months. I took that as my cue to leave.

When I got back to England I wrote a book about my adventures and became moderately rich and famous. Your applause makes me feel better about myself, for a while.

It’s said the Inuit have no word for “memory”, but I saw nothing much to convince me either way.

By Owen Booth

Read Owen's other Shortfolio story - And then...

And then...

…it was actually the Germans who came up with the idea of dropping an elephant out of a Hercules transport plane at three thousand feet – well, the Germans or the Swiss: at the time both offices tried to take the credit, and the ensuing fallout over exactly which set of maverick geniuses were responsible for dreaming up the premise for the ultimate viral video caused bad blood and snide remarks during international conference calls between Basle, Berlin, Lausanne and Frankfurt for months. Executives who’d previously been best friends fell out, golf games and skiing weekends were called off, wives were forced to snub each other at Europe’s best spa resorts and hair salons. Middle managers found themselves picking sides and developing secret handshakes and code words and initiation ceremonies, sharing stories about savage briefcase fights in underground car parks, the deliberate keying of Porsches, the incredible day that two vice-presidents went so far as to arrange a duel over the matter, the centuries-old rivalry and suspicion between their two countries demanding that only the spilling of blood would be sufficient to repair the damage done to honour, order and the proper way of conducting business by this… this slander! These lies! Apparently they got so far as to meet one frosty morning in a field just outside Zurich, seconded by junior executives and with a company doctor on hand, their weapons of choice something sleek and aspirational by Heckler and Koch (the only solution for today’s business leader in a tight spot), the whole thing ready to be relayed via webcam direct to the company intranet and from there onwards to the offices in Japan, Argentina, Italy, Belgium, Finland, the UK and, of course, Switzerland and Germany, capturing Klaus (or Hans, or Uwe) back-to-back with Uwe (or Hans, or Klaus) in matching DKNY two button suits lit just right by the watery sunrise, both of them fortified by a shot of really quite impressive brandy, corporate pride and the best sex they’d had with their wives in years, fingers on triggers, nine in the clip and feeling more alive than they could ever remember feeling in their careers…

In the event it was only the last minute arrival from head office of a black company helicopter carrying two heads of HR, some huge bonuses and a written declaration of truce – the clatter of its rotors scattering a flock of surprised birds into the dawn sky – that prevented things from getting really out of hand. And of course six months later they were at it again, only this time each country was insisting that the whole elephant debacle had in fact been nothing whatsoever to do with them, and had been entirely the fevered brainchild of those crazed madmen, those slightly-less ruthlessly efficient savages from the other side of the Rhine. Because by then absolutely nobody wanted to take responsibility for what had turned out to be one of the most shameful – and frankly ridiculous – episodes in the company’s short history…

By Owen Booth

PS – I Love You…

‘There had been something about the bone structure,’ Rodgers mused, still immersed in a dream, ‘and the form of the eye wasn’t quite right.’

Light had already filled the room, as Rodgers woke. His eyes flickered rapidly, scanning the white ceiling. ‘Oh, the bill,’ he thought.

The foreign teachers’ Bangkok soiree had been destined to be - how had old Richards put it? - ‘a raucous evening!’ Richards, South African born, 60 odd but as straight as a rod, stern with a large lantern jaw, professor of Entomology, now teaching English to South East Asian kids. He’d arrived in Bangkok looking for the good life, and subsequently got ensnared and thoroughly fleeced by a young lady from the North East.

They’d started out at 6pm near the Phra Athit pier, quaffed an iced beer and nibbled a pungent salad. Rodgers talked about Muslim India and Moghuli cuisine, and Richards dwelt on bread. Thus they went in search of Muslim roti and settled for an aromatic Indian curry, thick nan bread and a carafe of dubious rouge.

‘That rancid gut rot, without doubt our undoing.’ Rodgers postulated, unable to move from the bed. It had been Rodgers intention to help Richards – a respite from the wife – not to get him into more trouble. Whilst pondering this a message came up on his phone:

Money, cards – all gone – R.

Rodgers put his hand over his eyes, ‘Oh my God – doubly fleeced.’

He recollected: after the wine they’d been to… ah yes, that antiquated karaoke joint – PS - I Love You – with the Elvis album covers on the wall and the half-dead clientele; just the place for Richards. Certainly, at the last sighting, he’d appeared to be occupied and thoroughly enjoying himself. The hostesses in ultra short miniskirts, were in no way antiquated; he’d left Richards in the grasp of one.

It all came back now, he’d left Richards and gone to the bathroom, thinking, ‘the bone structures all wrong.’ On leaving he’d tried to warn Richards, ‘it’s not a girl,’ but he’d been drowned out by an old Thai crooner wailing mournfully - ‘Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone’. And Richards had responded, ‘Don’t worry about the bill,’ and pushed him out of the door.

Rodgers had dozed in the taxi, but still felt obliged to sit for a nightcap before settling in. Then – at the corner bar near his new apartment – he ran into the gym instructors’ monthly binge, he offered to pay the bill, which was readily accepted. The bill was still waiting to be settled; Rodgers didn’t have enough to clear it the previous evening.

The phone rang – Richards – Rodgers switched it off, and turned over muttering, ‘Oh God, hope Monday never comes.’

By Steve Jones

A Little Walk

I check my bag and make sure I have the slip, even though I know it’s in there. I slam my way out of the house and turn left. I walk down our road. It smells of cat shit. There is a man with two kids walking in front of me. The two kids are skipping and they nearly get me in the eye with their ropes. I know it shouldn't make me angry but it did - just a little bit.

At the end of our road there is a pub called the Kings Arms. I have been in there a few times. I have drank cider with blackcurrant. It’s quite good in there; they sell cheese rolls and pork scratchings. Outside the pub there is an old man, the old man wears a sky blue baseball cap - probably from Marks and Spencer’s c1976. He is also wearing brown trousers that are rolled up to his knees. His legs are so thin I think that they might snap. I can't stop looking at his legs they are so skinny.

I do stop looking at the old man with the sky blue baseball cap and painful legs as there is a flyer on the pavement. Its neon pink so that’s probably why I am attracted to it. I bend down to have a read. Its advertising salsa classes and I wonder what me and the old man would look like dancing salsa together?

At the end of the road there are traffic lights with a Budgens on the right and another pub called Finnegan’s Wake on the left. I have been into Finnegan’s Wake before. I once went on a date with an Australian boy called Sam. We sat by the toilets so that wasn't very good. He was quite dull actually so it didn't go so well. Although we did kiss outside afterwards, well I guess it would have been rude not to.

So at the lights I cross straight over and I am now on a green. I stop at a bench and check my bag for the slip - its still there. I see my cigarettes and think I may as well sit and have one of those. I am watching the cars and hearing some birds. I am thinking about what it would be like to be one of those birds.

I finish the cigarette - which incidentally I didn't enjoy that much because I have a sore throat.
I go down the small road with speed bumps on. Last time I came down here I tripped over one of the bumps and fell on my knees. It was pretty embarrassing I can tell you - but - the good thing was no one saw me. I get to the blue door with a little window on and push. Inside I hand my slip though the glass window. The man takes it from me and gets my parcel. I take the parcel and say thank-you.

By Amy Hughes

My First Springtime Jogging Adventure

I have dug through the heap of shoes in the bottom of the closet, tossing aside a pile of winter boots, moving aside the summer sandals that have been pulled down recently to join the jumble . . . all the while assuring myself that I will organize the closet today, knowing full well that I have said this to myself every morning since we moved in two years ago. I have at last found two jogging shoes that match, still sporting a bit of the dried dirt leftover from their last use months ago. I reach in the drawer and wrestle into my jogging bra and pull on a favorite t-shirt that fit so well last spring. It seems to bunch peculiarly around what used to be a somewhat slender waist, refusing to go down any further unless I resort to some of the techniques reminiscent of those learnt in my sausage-making class – with what appears to be a similar looking result. Oh well . . . out the door . . . When I look down I notice the farmer’s tan that resulted from my brief affair with bicycling. My daughter, a bit aghast at this, reminded me that they did sell spray-on tan products . . . not believing that I would willingly go around in such a state. As I run down the street I wonder how many mornings I may have to do this to make some difference. I place a hand upon my stomach as I run and I am immediately aware of how the poet may have been inspired to write that one’s stomach might “shake like a bowl full of jelly”.

Rather than to be emotional about all of this, I choose to be scientific. . .
The human species prefer the shelter of their hovels during the dark, cold winter months. Retreating at the first signs of cold and darkness to the protection and comforts offered within, cable television, microwave popcorn and Blue Bell ice-cream. Here they feast upon the store of food they have gathered, having anticipated these bleak, dark months. They will only venture out and leave the safety of their shelter to feed when tempted by foods that don’t store well, like Starbuck’s caramel macchiato with whipped crème and caramel or Shipley’s crème filled donuts. During these hibernating months, the humans may find that they have to venture out to replace their secondary skins. Humans are the only species that seem to have lost their fur somewhere, and have resorted to manufacturing the required protective layer in the form of clothing. The female may utilize various forms of this in helping her to attract a mate.

Upon the arrival of spring, the humans emerge to frolic in the sunshine and to mate (depending on if they have a headache). Which brings me back to my original point . . . . I need to go buy a new t-shirt.

By Cindy McMorran

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