Karen Wheatley

Karen Wheatley phoned to say she was pregnant. I was gonna be dad. I was in a panic. I didn’t wanna be a dad. I couldn’t look after myself let alone a baby. There was also the fact that Karen was only seventeen years old. I was two weeks shy of my nineteenth birthday. Karen and me had been going out almost eight months.

Karen said she wanted me to meet her parents. After a month of putting it off I turned up at their house in Streatham. Her mum and dad were sitting on the settee in the living room. Her parents kept staring at me. They looked confused and angry. Karen’s big brother John was built like a brick-shit-house. He was sitting in an armchair across from me. He was smoking a fag and giving me filfthy looks. I was shitting myself.

In a shaky voice I told the Wheatleys that if their daughter decided to have the kid I’d do my best to be a good father. Then in the heat of the moment, with every body watching me, I got carried away. I suggested Karen and me get married. I said we could either do it now, or wait ‘til after the baby, our baby, was born.

Karen’s dad stood up and paced the room. Karen’s mum put a protective arm around her daughter.

I understand what you’re saying Danny, but as far as we’re concerned, Karen’s far too young to have a baby, said Mr Wheatley.

          

Anyway she ain’t marrying a little prick like you, Karen’s brother broke in.

He stubbed out his cigarette, folded his arms and glared at me. 

Now there’s no need to talk to the boy like that, said Mr Wheatley. 

Karen’s mum went to the kitchen and came back with a pot of tea and some custard- creams. I didn’t feel like drinking tea or eating biscuits. I was still thinking about what Karen’s Brother had said.

After fifteen minutes I got up to leave. Karen walked me to the front door. So that was it. There wasn’t gonna be a kid after all. Karen gave me the address of the clinic where she was going to have the abortion. The whole thing was making me feel ill. Karen held my hand and half jokingly mentioned eloping. I shrugged as if to say it wasn’t realistic. Anyway I worked as a cleaner. I hovered offices. In truth, I knew I couldn’t support a teenage girl and a baby. I hugged Karen and she started to cry. I did too. Then I left.      

By Michael Ford

       

(Michael has also written stories for Straight No Chaser, Jazz Magazine, 3am Magazine, Pulp Faction and Nuvien Magazine.)

Lost In Translation

We set out for a nighttime stroll along the lake. The breeze, uncharacteristically warm for November, ruffles through the trees. "I wish we could go out on a boat tonight", I say, glancing at the empty boat docks. "I wish someone would buy us a drink", she says, glancing at all the couples walking past. 

Strolling past the massive ship housing the yacht club, we reach the bench at the edge of the dock. Looking out across the lake, with the city behind us, we talk about everything and nothing. What we want from life, what we will someday name our kids, who we will marry, where we will live.

Hours later, a cooler breeze wraps itself around the dock. Shivering, we call it a night and start the walk back towards the city.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the stillness. "Girls, hey girls!". A man looks down at us from the deck of the yacht club. "Girls, why don't you come on up for a drink?". Not the types to turn down adventure (or a free drink), we look at each other, shrug, and head towards the ship entrance.

We manoeuvre our way up to the deck, feeling like we are in a more modern and smaller budgeted re-make of the titanic, complete with a grand entrance hall and winding staircases. We are met by the gentleman (Harry) and quickly realize that he is most definitely old enough to be our grandfather. We politely decline his repeated offer for free drinks but accept his invitation to tour the boat. 

Harry asks us where we are originally from and is overly delighted when the answer is Russia. With a wistful look in his eyes and speech not slightly slurred by alcohol, he says "I met a Russian girl, Ludmila, on the internet once". Ten minutes later, we are acquainted with all the dramatic details of the online union and its sad conclusion (Ludmila is now dating a German man). Fifteen minutes after that, when he has asked us the same questions three times and begins to ramble about Ludmila again, we decide that alcohol is the only thing that will get us through another five minutes and take Harry up on his offer to buy us a drink.

An hour and two Stellas later, we walk off the ship. "Well, at least we went on a ship", I say. We walk in silence for a minute, then she says "Perhaps I should have clarified. I would like a young, handsome man to buy us a drink".

Universe, take note.

 By Anahit Gomtsian

Sober

It was a paper box that could have held a new router or portable clock radio. There was a wall of these boxes all the same size as if one size fits all: a sumo wrestler or ballerina. On the cover of his box was an envelope addressed to the Memorial Company (Levitt-Weinstein) and the Certificate of Cremation for Tamma, done up like a prize. Inside the envelope another card Permit No. 422 signed by the Crematory.

He didn’t want to open the box and didn’t want to deal with the contents until he had thought it through but then it was Tamma and he could imagine her saying: “what the hell is your problem…do this now I’m not staying on the floor in your shitty filthy car. Put me in the ocean.”

So he thought about where. Was there a board walk so the ashes wouldn’t blow back on the beach? Did it matter? Were there rules about this stuff? Should he wait until it was dark? Say a special prayer.

He ended up on the beach in Delray by a restaurant called Luna Rosa because she loved to go there and they had spent most of their Florida time in Delray. It was raining now and so he just grabbed the box and dashed to the water and sat down on the sand and opened the box. He pulled out the clear heavy plastic bag and dropped it in the sand between his legs.

The stuff inside (Tamma stuff) looked just like the sand but not as fine. It didn’t look like ashes.

And then there was this plastic brad holding the bag together that clearly required a tool to safely remove. He could imagine a frustrated mourner just heaving the bag directly in the water or tearing the bag and having the ashes blow everywhere. So he worked the tab up the bag using his fingers like a needle nose pliers and somehow got it off.

He put his hand in the bag and let the ashes fall through his fingers. Inside the bag was a metal coin stamped ABCO Crematory 30336. With the bag open he walked into the ocean up to about his waste. He forgot his wallet was still in his jeans. He let the ashes fall into kind of a milky cover like creamer in your coffee.

He was alone with her.

She was not drunk.

No rabbi, no body in a box, no family.

Only one mourner.

By

Richard Schwachter

The Bus Stop

Its hard to look at the face of our better halves when they are not lying next to us as we wake up, when they are not there just yet. I feel strapped to my bed, unable to start up. Unreasonably tired after heavy idleness. Sometimes one finds it in himself to – shit! I’m late for work! Spring out of bed and go straight to the bathroom. Quick shower, quick shave, quick breakfast and quick brush. Run towards the bus before I – too late. See it passing by the other side of zebra. Next one will be here in five. No problem. I can relax now and light a one up, by the time I am done the bus will be here. I can never be bothered with music lately, too much of a headache in the mornings. Should probably get that checked out by a doctor. Can’t wait till four o’clock. It is far too early now, and I’m still going to be thirty minutes late, I’ve been going to work thirty minutes late for the last week or so.

A man comes to wait for the bus by my side, and I start hearing an intermittent buzz. He looks oddly similar to my father. He moves quickly to the other side of the road and then I swear that he tries to tell me something. The sound gets higher, must be some construction site behind me. My cigarette is half done, I look back up at the man and he is gone. But from his general direction comes a girl shouting out what might be my name, cannot hear over the annoying noise. It’s my girlfriend, with the gym bag under her arm; she crosses the street quite quickly and hands it to me. I try to speak to her over the noise of the machines “You, know, you didn’t have to come all the way here,” I have to end up screaming, “I can take care of these things myself, I don’t need to be cared after, I don’t need a mother.” Then she smiles that smile that I love so much and gives me a kiss, then she tries to unbuckle my pants but I shove her to the road the bus runs her over and I wake up, sweating, letting out a bland scream.

By Alonso H. Garrigues Muñoz

Comment from author:

'I'm a 21 year old Spaniard (though fluent in English) just now starting to publish my stories on the internet, I wrote this little 393 word story and just thought this site would be be great.'

The Watch

“A gift fro.”
“A gif.”
“A gift from heaven. Quit doing that!” Malcolm’s eyes were wide as he reached for the zipper on his back. “Crafted by God.”

Dangling the watch like a cat with a rat, Jack responded, “Heaven? So you’re talking about a cloud city, and a magic man who makes clocks? Probably a prototype developed by the CIA.”

“Yea,” I scoffed, “a billion-dollar prototype that happens to be at the bottom of the Atlantic. Hooray for homeland security! Your tax money at work.”

“Shut, the fuck, up!” he yelled back at me, muffled by his scuba mask, “maybe this is how the government is able to fool millions.”

Malcolm looked at me, rolling his eyes. “O jeez, here we go again.”

“The real question,” I asked, “is, why do we have this?”

“Luck.”
“Fate.”

Pausing for a second, the three of us started shouting.

“Maybe stop them from boarding the planes!”
“Invest in Apple!”
“Tell Dad we loved him.”

I laughed out loud, but began thinking. The things you could accomplish, the power, the possibilities…all running through my head as I looked at this little golden circle. Watching Jack and Malcolm I knew what was also flowing through their heads.

“Damnit” I whispered

Clenched in a fist, I hurled the abomination back to the ocean.

We heard a plop, the boat turned, and we went home.

By John Accarino

A Friendly Rendezvous

This post is a follow up by Mark Clarke to the popular Friendly Drinks story that he wrote for Shortfolio back in January this year...

Ok, so what now? The train is quite literally leaving the station. And so am I.

I've been thinking about this meeting for, like, the last five days now. I've been trying to decide what I want to say to him for five fucking days now and here I am, closing on these turnstiles, still as clueless as I was when...oh shit...where did I put that ticket?

Right, this is going to take a more thorough search than first thought so let's move out of this queue. Don't you sigh at me, you dick. How much of a hurry can you possibly be in that this six second delay to your day has put you out? Especially since you cruised up the escalators, you fat prick.

God I hate digging through this thing. How much of the crap in this handbag do I ever even use? Better safe than sorry I suppose. Oh, there it is. Right where I've never once put it before. That makes sense. I didn't even know it had that pocket.

Ok, take a breath, calm yourself, regain your composure. You're back on street level now and the pub's just round here - but I'll just take a seat here for a second. There's no rush. He's probably not even there yet and this is definitely not a scenario I want to approach without sufficient nicotine in my system.

Light, draw deep, exhale slowly...it's not helping even a little bit. How did I get myself into this situation? How do I always seem to get myself into this situation? I like him - that's not even the issue, of course I like him - but...but there's always that 'but'.

If only we could just go back, go back to when we just liked each other. Before...

'You got a light, sweetheart?'

'Uh, yeah, sure.'

This is as good a time as any to head on. I get my lighter back and head round the corner. There it is. Just head right in there now, suck it up.

It's not too busy, shouldn't be too hard to...there he is. And he's spotted me. No way out now. Do I want a way out? His eyes are wide and he actually gulped as he stood up to greet me. Good grief, who gulps nowadays outside of cartoons? God, he really can be adorable every now and then. I kiss him and step back, his voice cracks slightly;

'Hi' he warbles.

Ok, deep breath. Here goes.




By Mark Clarke

Sylvie (And The Night I Met Your Mother)

Not surprised I feel a bit nervous.

Already I've made a mistake. Spent too long deciding whether to start with items of topical interest or dive straight into the introduction? I eventually decided to dive in with introduction just as the tram leaves the stop I should have got off at. So I`m late, but I`m here.

The agency said she'd meet me at the hotel and if she got there first she would be at the bar and would save me a place. Do a walk past… yes there she is, sitting there with her handbag saving the seat next to her. The only lady… a gloriously lovely single, single lady at a bar stuffed with men who should already be home for tea.

I walk towards her past tables and cubicles with anonymous men and a few anonymous ladies, some in couples but odd ones by themselves pretending to read or playing with their phones.

I`m here, be confident. Say who you are and things will develop… relax.

She sees me move towards the vacant space. Lovely lady moves her handbag and smiles.

“Hello, I’m Heinrich.”

“Hello.” So confident… but with a nice touch of hesitation.

“Hello, I`m Heinrich”…relax.

“I am so pleased to meet you. I am an administrator on the railways and until recently I looked after Mother but now I live by myself”.

She smiles. I hurry on.

“I'm not just an ordinary administrator. I administer all the trains in the south west sector. In good time I have expectations of being the administrator for at least two sectors, a job that would bring a car and a very good pension.”

OK…. a little rushed, but I was nervous. She looks at me… perfect blue (or possibly grey) eyes…I'm in love.

“Perhaps you could reciprocate (relax!) by telling me a little about yourself?”

“Your tables ready” says a man in a suit with a menu in his hand.

“Don't interrupt” was what I am about to say but the words catch in my throat and never make it.

“Thanks Marcel. I'll come through straight away…say hello to Heinrich. He works on the railways.” With that she picks up her drink and is off.

I look around. No one seems to notice me as every part of my being sweats, my skin glows and my chin drops to my chest. No one, that is, apart from the anonymous woman who'd been playing with her phone. She waves. I stand. My legs move. I walk towards her table.

She comes to meet me and holds out her hand. “My name is Sylvie. Are you Heinrich? There were no places at the bar, so I sat here but I have kept you a seat.”

I try to regroup. A hand touches my sleeve. Lovely lady tugs authoritatively. “They've put another seat at my table. I just love railways. Come and tell me exactly what you do.”

Sylvie stares…“Sorry my name's Albrecht,” I whisper.

By James Kruschev

Call for more 500 word stories

If you've written something you would like other people to read and comment on send it to us at shortfolio@googlemail.com. Just a reminder that all short stories have to be less than 500 words long to be published here.

If you're in need of a little inspiration, cast your eyes over two 500 word stories from Quick Fiction magazine:

One Word a Day, Five Hundred Days by Rebecca Donnelly

Spot by David Schuman

Quick Fiction publishes 500 word short fiction journals two times a year, so it's worth a look for anyone keen to get published in print.

Timmy the Inquisitive Gopher

There once was a young gopher named Timmy who lived in a state of constant astonishment at the world around him. His bright, eager eyes saw nothing but beauty everywhere he looked. He had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and loved nothing more than to go for long walks with his mother and discovering more and more about the forest.

One day, because Timmy had been very good and had kept his room nice and tidy, Timmy’s mother agreed to take him on a walk. Timmy was overjoyed and practically dragged his mother away as they set off from their den.

As they walked, the young gopher chattered at his mother with a seemingly endless stream of questions about the oaks and the dandelions, the butterflies and the reeds. He eventually broke away from his mother who, weary of being tugged this way and that by her excitable little boy, let him go with a quiet warning to stay where she could see him.

And so they walked deeper and deeper into the forest, Timmy scampering gleefully back and forth around the comfortable amble of his mother. He would run to the limits of his restriction but was always very careful to keep his mother in sight.

Spotting a ladybird, Timmy dashed forward but stopped suddenly as a sound caught his attention. He could hear a distant sweeping hiss unlike anything that he had ever heard before. As he stood listening his mother had caught up to him.

‘Now Tim-Tim,’ she said, ‘we should be heading back. Your father will be getting worried.’

Timmy protested and insisted that he needed to discover the source of this mesmerising sound before they could go home. His mother relented and so on they walked.

The sound grew louder and louder until, at last, Timmy saw a bright break in the trees and could restrain himself no longer. He bounded forward, oblivious to the calls of his mother as she waddled after him as quickly as she could. As Timmy broke through the tree-line he found himself standing on dirt that was soft and yellow and like nothing he had ever seen before. In front lay a great blue band of water that Timmy guessed had to be at least three, maybe four times as big as the river near their den.

He ran forward and found at his feet vast swathes of slimy green, ribbon-like leaves, which he simply had to play with. His mother finally caught up and, remaining near the tree-line, shouted for her son to come home now, dinner would be ready.

‘Just a few more minutes mummy’ Timmy pleaded as he threw the wet green leaves up into the air.

‘No Timmy,’ his mother insisted, ‘We can explore the seaside another time.’

But Timmy was having too much fun to hear his mother as he grabbed handfuls of the soggy weeds and draped then around himself gleefully.

And then a whale landed on him.

By Mark Clarke