For Writers
By Writers
|
For Writers
|
|
By Writers
|
Ascriber / Writers Eyes Workshop - 5.
'Summer Time'
It's Summer fair time and you are going to a summer fair, rummage sale, boot sale or jumble sale.
Is it indoors or out?
If it's indoors what is the building like? Is it raining outside?
If it's outside, is it in a street, a field, a car park? Is it raining? Is it
warm or cold.
Imagine the crush of people waiting for the grand opening, the rush to the various stalls, the arguments over second hand items of clothing and the respective prices. The smells, the sounds, the children getting excited. You've got the message? Now write about it.
Story Writers - a short story of about 2000 words of an incident at the fair - you can start your tale before the sale if you need to portray events leading up to it.
Article writers - Write an article of about 1500 words on a sale, fictitious or otherwise or write an article on fund raising sales in general.
Play Writers - Write a play set around a stall at a Summer fair.
Poets - Imagine a fair and the items for sale, you can pick one item or more or even the person selling or buying but use the vision as a poem of no more than eighty lines.
Submissions
We are always grateful for your comments and will be pleased to display them, or should the writer prefer, e-mail them on.
by
Philip Anderson
Judgement Day
After switching off Test Match Special on his radio, nine year old Colin Ierston decided to make another trip to the kitchen larder fridge in search of yet more comforting edibles to satisfy his ongoing insecurities.
As he made his way downstairs and along the hall to the old oak door of the kitchen, he reflected once again on the troublesome bullies in his class at school who were forever tormenting him on his smallness and the fact that he was the only 'posh kid with a snotty soft accent.'
These facts were by no means false, for Colin lived with his mother and father in a large five-bedroom Victorian house on the edge of Millington, a quaint little village situated near the Sussex Downs.
Both his parents had well-paid jobs and took an active interest in their son's education and overall well-being, depriving him of nothing emotionally. The physical and material aspects of life, they believed, belonged to the proletarians who were forever amassing endless items of little worth just to compensate for their own inadequacies and petty, ill-cultivated lives.
"Don't concern yourself with those oiks," they would say. "Life's too short to be worrying unduly about plebs like that who are only bent on robbing you of your joy and happiness."
O.K. in an ideal world, perhaps, but Colin knew in his own mind that this was no 'ideal world' but rather a dreadful one full of cruel-minded people bent on a life of violence and hate; and what was more, he lived in it!
Although not really wanting to be in breach of his parents strict moral values which they had so carefully inculcated in him from the outset, Colin wanted desperately to see to it that these bullies were brought to justice - if not by himself - then definitely by another more powerful source. He'd thought of all sorts of things - from the obveous to the more discreat - but too no avail.
Apart from the old grandfather clock that ticked away placidly in the far corner of the vast hall, everywhere this side of the house lay bathed in silence as both his parents were hard at work in the study, busily preparing for their forthcoming conference on the effects of persistent child abuse.
Both were active members of the medical profession and had contributed enormously to various projects, psychological case papers, and recently had been awarded an OBE for their ongoing efforts to provide solutions for transient behaviour.
From the cold, well-stocked fridge, Colin selected half a pork pie, two jam tarts and a slice of his favourite ham. These he placed onto an oval platter. Finally, after picking up a couple of nicely decorated serviettes from off a diamon-shaped silver tray, Colin left the kitchen and once again crossed the hall and mounted the stairs to his bedroom, his own private place of safety.
Turning on the radio once more, Colin settled himself down on the edge of his bed, and for the next few minutes focused his attention on the cricket and on the consumption of the appetising dainties which lay balanced on his skinny bare knees.
On Saturday, the members of his class would be going to the fair. Colin had wanted to go, but those bullies would be there to spoil things for him.
"What's up, Posh Boy?" They had jeered when he had told them he wouldn't be accompanying them to the fair. "Don't your mummy and daddy approve of the likes of us. Too common, I suppose."
They were always like this. If the truth were known, they were probably jealous. More often than not, behaviour of that nature generally stems from envy, an attitude which clearly says 'I want to be like you, but something tells me from deep within, I can't be.'
His father, on the other hand, upon hearing that under no circumstances would his son be visiting the fair with his class chums, merely threw back his head and said in his usual big-hearted manner: "A boy of your calibre should be able to ride above the likes of those cretins."
Then in a more sober tone, he added: "Joaking aside, you must remember, my son, you have a brain inside that head of yours, whereas theirs is full of nothing but air and dust sucked in through their filthy little ears. Besides, if they had a brain, they would more than likely be dangerous."
There then followed his usual short clinical speech on the human mind. "Science tells us that the feeble-minded often derive great pleasure from challenging others stronger willed than themselves. It's the only way they can survive. And while it may be tough for the victim, intelligence should conquer all such threats and attacks on one's right to life. Besides," he ended, on a cheerful high, "'Vengeance is mine,' sath the lord, 'I shall repay.'"
It was these wise words of his father's that later caused Colin to have a change of heart about going to the fair on Saturday. Although he was a little nervous, he reasoned that there would be no need for him to worry as they wouldn't be expecting him, anyway, for he had made it quite clear to them that he wouldn't be going in the first place. He would simply keep himself to himself and hope they didn't catch sight of him. "Besides," Colin thought, "just maybe, just maybe the Lord might bring vengence against those pigs before the week's through, then I will be able to enjoy myself both at the fair and at school without them picking on me all the while."
Colin knew in his own mind that these were wicked thoughts frowned upon by God and his christian parents, and should his father ever find out that his son had taken to filling his mind with evil ideas, the rain of terror would be upon him. But it was as if his parents didn't fully understand just what he was going through. Granted, they were good at their job and were quite able to resolve the psychological problems of others - and his to an extent - but their biggest problem: they seemed to think such terrible things would never happen to him.
Throughout the remainder of that week, Colin made a fervent effort to steer clear of his class bullies and spent most of his playtime reading in the library. But when the crowd found out, they set about tormenting him, calling him all sorts of horrible names.
Kevin was the ring leader. The rest just followed suit. Besides being several inches taller than Colin, Kevin was also a lot heavier, too. Yet behind all of that blubber lay a mean and sadistic streak which he never failed to show to Colin. But as Colin's father had told him: 'Vengeance is mine, I shall repay.'
The worst moment for Colin occurred during afternoon break on the Friday before the fair trip. Whilst he sat leisurely ensconced in a comfortable chair by the window in the well-equipped library, who should barge in but Kevin.
The boy didn't knock, he simply kicked open the door with his filthy shoe, and stormed inside, startling poor old Colin out of his wits.
Luckily for Colin, Kevin was alone. Probably that was part of the brute's plan, for it wasn't like Kevin to parade about the school by himself. The boy thrived on his audience, and they thrived on him.
Colin was about to ask Kevin what he wanted, when he was suddenly jumped upon and dragged unceremoniously out of the library and along the short passage to the boys' toilets from where could be heard the sound of excited voices.
Colin shivered and felt a numbness in the pit of his stomach. His worse suspicions had been confirmed. Kevin had indeed got a master plan and it was very shortly to be acted out, for just then, at a signal in the form of a high-pitched whistle from Kevin, the toilet door opened and Colin was seized by many outstretched hands that latched on to his body like many clamps, and propelled him inside.
Colin wanted to scream out, but it had all happened so quickly, he just couldn't. His entire body felt stiff and cold as if he'd been shut in a refrigerator for a few hours. Besides, the many hands that secured him were also partly covering his mouth. Rough hands which Colin instantly recognised to be those of Michael Hornby, a scruffy-looking boy who lived with his unemployed mother on the newly-built council estate.
So close to Colin's nose were the hands that he could smell the unpleasant stench of sweat, for Michael seldom washed. His hair was unkempt and nearly all his clothes had patches in them; and where there were no patches, usually on the elbows, his own grimy flesh showed through.
The next thing Colin knew, he was being held upside-down by his legs and ankles with his head just above the pan of the open toilet, from where could be seen the human equivalent of a freshly hatched pound of saveloys bobbing up and down in a sea of pea green gravy.
Colin heaved and wished for the hand of God to come upon these evil children of the devil.
Then a voice, Michael's voice, laughed and said: "Let's see what our little posh git thinks of this." And with that the hands that had once held him so tightly suddenly released their grip and Colin fell head first into the evil-smelling pan, whereupon his eyes, nose and mouth were suddenly engulfed in that cloud of murky water and its unmentionable contents that had been deposited moments earlier by Kevin and his disgusting right-hand accomplices.
The crowd shrieked with laughter and then fled from the scene of their crime, leaving the spluttering and choking Colin to recover from his terrible ordeal by himself.
***
"Tickets, please! Tickets, please!," barked the burley young tousle-haired attendant on the gates.
It was now Saturday afternoon and the huge winding road that led up to Millington park in which the fair was to be held was a buzz of excited children's voices.
Whole tickets were obediently handed to him, checked and then handed back with a sweeping gesture of his large hands. "On you go! Yes, on you go!"
The air that Saturday afternoon was full of bands and pop music pouring from all directions; and there was a strong smell of candy floss on the warm breeze.
The dark-haired youth in jeans and open-necked sweater was just ordering his charge in the big wheel to pull down their safety bars, when Kevin and his band of accomplices marched up, each demanding admission tokens for the ride.
"Sorry, boys," said the youth, "all full up, I'm afraid. You'll have to wait your turn like the rest." With that, he pressed the button and the enormous wheel whirled into action.
Full of indignation, Kevin turned and marched his troop off in the direction of the roller coaster. However, much to their disgust, that too was in motion, and already a stream of brightly clad little boys in t-shirts and shorts were forming an orderly queue on the neatly cut grass verge next to the breathtaking contraption that was now in the act of turning its screaming crew upside-down thirty or so feet above the surface of the ground.
"Doesn't look like we're gunna get much joy here, does it," grumbled Kevin. Then he brightened. "I know," he said, with a menacing grin, "let's go and see if our skinny little posh friend is anywhere about."
"Wouldn't of thought so," croaked the dirty-faced Michael. "Haven't you forgotten, he's dead scared of us. 'Sides," he added as an afterthought, "the silly fool's probably still puking up after his nice little bath in the bogs."
He wasn't far off the truth, for Collin was that afternoon lying upstairs in bed, nursing a rather painful stomach. His brief immersion in the school toilets on Friday had certainly put an end to all his hopes of ever going to the fair. In fact, the doctor explained that it might be two or three days before there would be any signs of recovery.
"A Dose of human excrement is not good for anyone," he had told Colin, after the boy had vomited for the ninth time in the school surgery.
He was then prescribed a large bottle of medicine and a small one of tablets and was sent home with strict instructions to drink plenty and rest.
Upon hearing the shocking report of their son's ill-treatment at the hands of Kevin and his savage gang, Colin's parents had immediately jumped into their silver Jag and driven off at top speed to the school. Then after ordering the head out of a most important meeting, they demanded that he make a thorough and systematic investigation into this terrible act of abuse and to see to it that the culprits were severely punished.
They had also informed the head that, from now on, Colin would no longer be a pupil at his school as they had, at long last, managed to secure a place for him at one of the local preparatory schools for boys where such despicable behaviour did not prevail.
It was fast approaching five o'clock. The majority of the fairground owners had already packed up when Kevin and his mates, almost skint, decided to give the roller coaster one final go.
Luckily for them, the man in charge had not yet closed. So after purchasing their tokens, they made a dive for the nearest car and jumped in, pulling their safety bars down into the locking position.
***
It was four hours later when Colin's parents, after finishing their dinner, decided to retire to the drawing room for an evening of quiet and relaxation. Casualty was just finishing, and soon the nine o'clock news would be on.
As the two sat back on the sofa, leisurely sipping claret from their tall crystal wine glasses, the headlines appeared on the screen:
'Interest rates look set to rise.'
'Suicide bomber kills 10 civilians.'
Colin's father suddenly gave a start of surprise and sat up, wine slopping over the top of his glass and onto his trousers. A familiar picture in the final headline had caught his attention.
"My God!" he exclaimed, gesticulating with his vacant hand at the television.
'5 children die in fairground accident'.
The picture showed the remains of what was once a roller coaster lying twisted and bent on its side from beneath which could be seen a pair of human feet and a badly bruised and bloodstained face.
The location was clearly to be seen. 'Millington Park, Sussex.'
"Jesus Christ!," Gasped his wife, setting her glass down onto the polished surface of the oval coffee table. "That was the fair Colin was going to go to in the end, wasn't it. My God. I'm only too glad he didn't. That could have been him lying dead in that dreadful machine."
Following a few eye-witness accounts, the reporter's voice could be heard saying: "The five boys who sadly died in this afternoons' fair ground accident were all from the village of Millington. They had gone to the fair in the hope of having a great time but sadly it wasn't to be. While the cause of the accident is not yet known, engineers suspect that a mechanical fault might be to blame that brought the lives of these nine- and ten-year-old boys to a tragic end."
From inside the doorway, Colin gasped! "yes!" and dropped the glass of water he'd just sneaked from the kitchen.
Comments
A bit long, I skipped bits out but basically Well written, professional. Felt emotions of injustice and hatred towards the bullies. was delighted that the boys appeared to have been killed, and had no sympathy for them. They are out of the way. Hated them.
Helena Compton
by
Stephen Leese
Summertime Fayre
They say the truth hurts. It's true. It does. Who'd have thought I'd end up exposed to the harsh truth somewhere like that? Of all the places to come face to face with destiny, I'd have put a church fayre at about number two thousand on the list.
I should explain. This isn't the end of the world I'm talking about here, not as such. After all, what could possibly be so terrible about a little jumble sale in the middle of darkest Surrey?
I'd seen the advert in the local paper. 'Church Sale – Bring And Buy'. It ran to several paragraphs, explaining the delights of the fayre. So, in a mood to sample the wares and possibly snaffle a few bargains, I got into the car, said goodbye to the wife and drove the twenty miles from my house to the village where the big event was happening. The journey was swift though startling, thanks to an unexpected encounter with a badly driven tractor about halfway there. I probably left tooth marks in the steering wheel when that happened…
Little Henchurch is the name of the village. It's a quaint old place with history going back to the start of time. There's a big, lovely old Norman church there, with a well-stocked graveyard and when I arrived I found a big garish marquee erected over one half of what they called the Church Playing Fields.
Precisely what they played on those fields I don't know. Pass the parcel with the funeral urns, possibly.
Anyway, I digress. Back to the tale.
The sun was beating down in a glorious cascade of gold when I arrived, which seemed odd since I had driven through drizzle all the way there. There was just a hint of a breeze in the air and the green-garbed branches were swaying gently.
There were perhaps a dozen cars there by the time I arrived, but I got the impression from the throng that most of the patrons were more local. I paid fifty pence to some vague and faceless attendant for the dubious privilege of parking on a cowpat, then locked the car and headed for the marquee.
If you've ever been in a beer tent in the height of summer you'll know what I'm talking about when I say the air was so thick I could have parcelled it and taken it home with me. Forget cutting it with a knife – I could have dished it with a spoon. It was very warm and muggy and I was sweating within minutes, and I was very relieved to take my jacket off and sling it over my shoulder. There was no escape from the heat except to step back outside again, and so I loitered like a very bad store detective while I studied what was on offer.
There was another reason for my not going in immediately: the smell. It wasn't what I'd call offensive as such. It was more sort of insidious and shabby, like a salesman who wouldn't take the hint and clear off. It was an 'in-your-face' conglomerate stench of horticulture, cookery, animals and armpits, and no matter how much I feigned disgust I was sure that I was adding to it myself.
The stalls were what you'd expect for a village craft fair. There was a lot of what I'd charitably call 'tack' on offer – there's only so much a grown man can do with raffia before he breaks down and cries, after all. Just about every ornament known to man was on offer, as were an encyclopaedic spectrum of foods and delicacies, from apple pies to yams – I'm assuming a yam is edible. I've never seen one before and for all I know it could be some sort of floor wax. Safe to say I kept them at arm's length.
I had gone in search of bargains. What I found was cheap, all right, but if any of it graced the walls or garden of my home it would be after I had moved out and gone to live on the Moon. It was duffness given embodied, an unrelenting parade of junk.
Or was it?
There, tucked away in one corner of the marquee, was a neglected little stall.
I couldn't see what was on offer from where I stood, and the thin little man who ran it didn't seem to believe in the power of a good first impression. The whole caboodle, stall and retailer, combined to look in some way shifty, with that 'just nicked' look.
I'm ashamed to admit that I thought all of this before I even got close enough to see what he was selling. I suppose I'm just a cynical git at the end of the day.
So I held my jacket with one hand, stuck my other hand in my pocket and sauntered over there as cool as you like, or at least as cool as I could be, given the gigantic Turkish bath we were all crammed into.
Curiously the background noise seemed to fade away. The buzz of conversation diminished the closer I got, and it was a faintly unnerving sensation, though I couldn't doubt that it must have been a huge advantage for him. Not having to shout while haggling is always a good thing.
So why was business so slack there?
The sign on the front of the stall said 'Mysteries, Inc.'
"Good afternoon, Mr Jenkins," he said as I approached.
I stopped in my tracks, feeling suddenly vulnerable. My heart rate increased in a guilty surge and I looked around, feeling like a rabbit in the hunter's crosshairs. "Have we met before?" I asked uncertainly.
He gave me a very knowing grin that seemed to split his face in two. "Just my little guess. Did I get it right?" He held out his hands. "My name's Ivor Lewis. I sell things. Bits and bobs and stuff you really, really want. You know, anything at all. Everything you've ever wanted but were afraid to ask for. I also give things away." He added this last with a confident wink.
As sales pitches went, this was right up there with promoting life insurance for kamikaze pilots. There was nothing at all on the stall, save for copious quantities of muggy air and what looked like brown sauce stains. "Very nice," I remarked dryly. "Is the stall for sale, then?"
He laughed as if this was the funniest joke he had ever heard. Given the state of his stall that might not have been far from the truth. "Good one, sir. Good one."
"Have you actually got anything to sell?" I asked impatiently.
His grin broadened, if that was possible. It threatened to detach the top half of his head. "Whatever you want. This is right up your alley, Mr Jenkins," he said, reaching behind the stall and coming back with a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. He unwrapped it with a flourish. "Ta-daa!"
It was a box. It was made of polished wood, held together with cheap tacks. It was heavily varnished and had a brass handle on the hinged lid. It looked quite old. "What is it?" I asked after studying it for a moment or two.
"It's a Mystery Box, Mr Jenkins. A Mystery Box. It's a real lifesaver. You can't do without it. Yours for twenty quid. A real bargain, if I do say so myself."
"Twenty pounds for an old box?" I said sceptically. "What's it supposed to do, exactly?"
He beamed, leaning forward until we were almost nose to nose. "It shows you the world as it really is," he said confidentially.
"I work for an insurance company, Mr Lewis," I informed him. "I see the world on a regular basis. I travel door to door, I cold-call and I meet people and I see people. What could this box tell me that I can't figure out for myself?"
He seemed momentarily flummoxed when I said this. I don't know, maybe he was expecting his little spiel to generate instant income. If so, he had a lot to learn about the fine art of retail. First rule of selling the unsaleable – grab your audience and don't let them wriggle off the hook. You talk, you wave impressive documents under their noses and then, when they're sufficiently disorientated, make them sign on the dotted line, and then run – counting the cash as you go.
Ivor Lewis couldn't have sold fresh air to a suffocating man. I was distinctly unimpressed.
I'll give him credit, though. He didn't give up. He caught my arm as I made to turn away. "If sir would permit me to demonstrate…"
I stopped. What the heck, I thought. Might as well see what the Mystery Box actually did. Who knew? Maybe it would have some value. "Okay," I said doubtfully.
He smiled so widely I swear his lips split. Then he blinked. He obviously didn't have a clue where to start. "Let's see now. This is a Mystery Box."
"Yes, you've already told me that," I said impatiently. "Cut the drivel. Show me what it does ."
"Your wish is my command." He made to open the box, then stopped, looking at me oddly. "Have you ever felt yourself to be alone in a crowd? As if the world were having a joke at your expense? Ever wanted to be in on the secret?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, annoyed but puzzled.
"Have you?" he prompted.
I sighed. "Sometimes, yes."
"Well, be happy. With the Mystery Box that will be a thing of the past. Open the lid and see the world as it really is. Would you like to try it?" His smile seemed to harden as he spoke, and for some reason I began to feel a little worried.
Why? I hadn't parted with any money and I was only indulging his desperate pleas, after all. Sure I wanted to see the world as it was. Why was I suddenly nervous? I swallowed hard, the silence around me starting to echo like a clanging, soundless bell. "Go ahead," I croaked.
Ivor Lewis nodded and lifted the lid of the Mystery Box.
It was like plunging headlong into a bottomless cavern. Suddenly the air rushed all around me, the light bent and blurred and the stuffy marquee warped and flickered into a sort of surreal netherworld. I leapt back, startled, feeling real fear.
Everything had changed. Everything was suddenly translucent. I could see through people, stalls, the fabric of the marquee… Only Ivor Lewis and his stall were 'real' now. Even my car was gone.
He looked into my eyes, the enthusiasm of the salesman gone. Now he looked at me with sympathy and, perhaps sorrow, and, locking eyes with him, I suddenly knew why.
Rushing along a country lane, driving too fast for the road, radio on loud, tapping the steering wheel in time with the music… Feeling relaxed and happy… It promised to be a nice day once the drizzle cleared up and the clouds parted… Could be a good chance to buy some stuff for the house, or maybe – WHAT THE HELL!?
The tractor was just there! It pulled out of the siding as if from nowhere, and there's nowhere to turn, no room to overtake. Oh God, I'm doomed! Slam the brakes, feel the crushing deceleration and then the sickening impact…
And then I'm clear. The sky is sunny and there's nothing before me save the little wooden box that plays the last seconds to me as the horror of it washes over me.
And Ivor Lewis smiled again. "I really am most terribly sorry, Mr Jenkins."
The End
Stephen Leese is presently showcasing his latest novel 'FJD' on this site - click here for a preview. You will need 'Back' to return to this page.
Comments will appear here