Ten Minute Tales

by Victoria Point Writers



  Ten-minute Tales

  Table of Contents

  Introduction – Ripples in a pond

  Theme – A long walk

  Theme – Spring

  Theme – Autumn

  Theme – Furniture

  Theme – Travel

  Theme – Winter

  Theme – Going it alone

  Theme – Magic

  Theme – Water

  Theme – Blogging

  Theme – Summer

  Conclusion and Acknowledgements

  About the authors

  INTRODUCTION

  Ripples in a pond?

  We are the ten-minuters. It started with one.

  While she was on a writing workshop, the fun and rewards of spontaneous, time-limited writing touched a chord for Nene.

  Not one to keep good things to herself, she cast the tiny stone of an idea into the infinity pond that rippled to a UK contact. Nene and Graham were exhilarated by the quick exchange and critiquing of a few exercises. Nene cast again and caught a new devotee, Laurie. Another ripple, another enthusiast, Sara. Next ripple in the pond brought in two, Carole and Robert, then finally the seventh, Marci. Will there be more?

  Was it a pond, or the sea, or the branching of a tree? Our cover catches the sea and the tree. We love it – picturesque Victoria Point in south-east Queensland, our meeting base, although we stretch a long way further.

  How does it work? The idea is that someone nominates a theme and when we can find ten minutes, each of us writes and circulates the result as an email attachment. We don’t edit the original version beyond a minor tidy-up of what emerged from the original inspiration. None of us reads another’s work until we’ve completed our own. There is no deadline and not everyone participates each time – other lives, unexpected demands.

  There’ve been lots of WOWs: Where did those ideas come from? Why can’t I be as quick writing scenes in my novel or short story? We are so different. We are so the same. We spark off each other. Somehow I’m clearer when there’s a bit of pressure. There’s something there I can expand on for flash fiction, for a short story. Maybe that’s the germ of another novel?

  So, what now? We really like the diversity of the stories and styles. As several of us are keen to explore e-publishing of our novels, we thought what better way than to use our ten-minute tales to learn the ropes, and maybe provide some entertainment for individual writers, or a spur for Writer’s Groups elsewhere as well. Of course the idea is not new, but our efforts are unique to us. For each theme the stories are presented in random order, by pulling a name blind-fold out of a bowl.

  We had fun and we’ll continue to have fun while also getting down to the serious stuff of short stories, novels, memoirs. And who knows what else?

  As you can see, we’ve achieved our e-anthology aim. And now you know our names, maybe you’ll look out for our novels and short stories when they reach the airwaves or the print shelves.

  Please enjoy, and tell us what you think. You can do this via our various twitter, Facebook or blog accounts.

  Happy reading and writing.

  From : Nene, Graham, Laurie, Sara, Robert, Carole, Marci

  THE STORIES

  THEME: A LONG WALK

  Starting story by Nene, Graham’s came later

  A Long Walk

  By Nene Davies

  It’s funny, when you haven’t slept properly for days, you almost get used to the feeling of exhaustion. You think it’s normal. I stood up gingerly, in case my legs had stopped working while I was thinking of other things – but they responded and held me up. I opened the door quietly and went out to the corridor. How strange, it was daylight and the big windows flanking the hallway seemed full of white glare. I looked at the ground – tiles, green and white that I hadn’t noticed before. I wondered how long it had taken someone to lay them. The corridor stretched on into the distance. It was very quiet, my heels sounded far too loud. How rude, I thought and tried to tiptoe. I reached a set of fire doors. The metal finger plates were smudged from a thousand pressing fingertips. Germ-ridden, no doubt. I hesitated - I didn’t want to get sick. I pushed one of the doors open with my hip and went through to the other side. This end of the corridor was noisy, no windows here - just doors and clanging and voices. The sounds cut through me and my head hurt. Interior windows were bright with artwork, the smell of flowers and dinner made a sickly stench and my stomach lurched. I put my head down to avoid eye contact. If I looked at someone, I’d have to say hello and maybe smile. I couldn’t do that. I waited by the lift and pressed all the buttons, up and down, just to make sure my ride would come quickly. It was carpeted and silent inside the little moving box. No music though. I was disappointed – surely all lifts were meant to have that tired old sound. It was expected. A gentle jolt and I’d arrived. The doors opened on their own, as if by magic and I stepped outside over that frightening bit where the threshold meets the gap. I think some people passed me. I think I might have been standing in their way. There was an enormous arrangement of flowers – mainly red – sitting grandly on a semicircular desk, then suddenly I was at the outside door and a blast of cold air took my breath away. I pulled my cardigan tighter round my shoulders and realised I was shaking. I saw him standing by his blue car. An anxious-looking figure, flushed perhaps from rushing. He saw me too and moved across the car park – I could see his mobile phone in his hand, but there was no need to make a call. I was here now. I’d hardly raised my head, but knew I’d have to now. He stood in front of me and must have read my face. He held my shoulders and I realised I was crying. Had I been sobbing all this time? I finally looked at his face and opened my mouth. No words came out. I shook my head, then whispered ‘I’m sorry, there was nothing they could do.’

  The long walk

  By Graham Thomas

  As I lay in the grass, I could hear the sun easing its way across the sky, dodging the clouds as they passed by. Up the green stem he climbed, slow, but darting here and there, seemingly urgently seeking some gem, some jewel he would take home to his beloved. The dewdrop at the tip of the blade glistened in crystal fashion in the sunlight, but it only added complication for this creature to embrace and negotiate.

  Round the back he went, mooching as fast as his legs could carry him. He found a morsel, a titbit of something which he felt would appeal to those at home. Down the stem he trudged, more difficulty in moving now, just following his instincts. A buzzing noise penetrated the air and my new ‘friend’ looked anxiously about him. Fight or flight? Discretion really is the better part of valour when you have a prize in your possession and which you want, no, need, to give to the one you love.

  Hauling this gift, he slipped silently through the greenery, his predator on his tail. Ducking and diving, my friend groped his way through the tangled undergrowth, fretful of losing his quarry. Every shoot, plant, stem, blade of grass produced another obstacle, but undeterred he continued up, down, around the green growth until he reached his objective – home. The others rushed madly round to greet him and celebrate his safe return with such booty. Ah, such joy and celebration.

  A journey of some three yards or thereabouts overall, but what do I know what it’s like to be so tiny, almost insignificant in his world of giants? And the predator? Buzzed off, I guess.

  THEME: SPRING

  Stories by Nene and Graham

  Hope and sunshine

  By Nene Davies

  Springtime, make me gasp. Make me breathe you deeply, freshly, greedily. I can’t believe you’re here – it seemed you’d gone for ever.

  Springtime, make me smile. Make me stop and gaze with pleasure at your playful lambs, your rickety calves with babies’ lashes. Over and over you re-recreate. You
never disappoint us.

  Springtime, make me think. Make me thankful. Make me glad.

  Remind me, whisper to me, send me running into Summer.

  I’m so very pleased to see you.

  Spring

  By Graham Thomas

  She can hear them now, twittering and chirruping away as they enjoy the soft sunshine which is dappling its way through the new verdant leaves. A cloudless, azure blue sky, who could ask for more? She could be anywhere. But she’s not. She’s here.

  She starts down the slope, shielding her eyes from the sun as she does so, and wanders in the general direction of the shops, meandering along the lane passing the deserted farm buildings on her left. The hum of busy buzzing insects fills the air and the soft spluttering of a light ‘plane can be heard as it heads for the old wartime aerodrome, a mile or so away.

  A soft, gentle spring breeze wafts through the long tresses of her red hair and she smiles to herself, musing as she does so on a long forgotten love. Forgotten, but not. ‘Where is he now? What’s he up to these days?’ Ah, what might have been, but isn’t. ‘You can’t dwell in the past’, she reminded herself silently, ‘the future is all before you. Anyway, I’m smiling, so it must have been the right decision.’

  A rackety old Fordson tractor interrupts her reverie as it chunters and clatters around the bend towards her. The wizened, weather-beaten face of the old farmer beams as he encounters her. ‘A breath of real fresh air’, he acknowledges to himself ‘on this most glorious of spring days.’

  It is as though she can read the mind of this ancient. ‘Yes, but they were halcyon days, too.’ she recalls silently.

  THEME: AUTUMN

  Story by Nene

  Autumn

  By Nene Davies

  Falling leaves have fun. They swirl down to the ground, like orange confetti. Gusty winds gather them up, and away they fly again, a flurry of crackling fire gems.

  The sky is blue – china blue, cool and clear. The nights are black as onyx stones in a necklace.

  There’s movement in the air, the promise of a new season. Long, hot dusty summer days are gone, packed away in their sunburnt suitcase until next year.

  Chilly promises of winter. Cosy nights by log fires, brisk walking through shoals of crunchy leaves, whispering, rustling.

  Ruddy cheeks and gloved hands, noses cold like well-fed dogs.

  The wind, the leaves, the watery clouds, the blue.

  Autumn – don’t go yet. We’ll stroll in your clean mornings and gather in your smoky dusk. Stay awhile. Winter’s hard hand will envelop us soon enough. Let’s play in the leaves while we can.

  THEME: FURNITURE

  Stories by Graham, Laurie, Nene, Marci

  Furniture

  By Graham Thomas

  Oh God I hate these sale days! People rushing in, shoving you about, abusing you, pulling at your labels. It’s not good enough, them doing that.

  Look at them out there, noses pressed against the windows. Snotty noses too, some of them, in more senses than one. Oh bugger, Dave’s opening up! Lord, here they come. Dave’s okay, mind, not like that Tamsin. Yes, here comes the howling mob. They see ‘Buy a sofa, get a free chair’ and they’re all over you like the proverbial. Kids running out of control, parents in a world of their own. It’s just not good enough, I tell you. And if that biggie over there decides to put his seat on mine, well, I just don’t know. Oh God, here he comes.

  It’s Cyril the sofa I feel sorry for. He could get two or three arses on him, poor bugger. I mean when you think of it, it’s not nice, is it? Bums on seats is all very well for them whose bums they are. But does anyone think or ask how we feel? No they bloody don’t.

  And I bet they all sit for meals at home with their elbows on the table. Just because you live in a pig-sty doesn’t mean you have behave like a pig, does it? Painful for the table, I should think, them elbows.

  Hello, Archie the armchair’s just taken someone for a ride over the other side of the shop. That’ll teach them to push him about and put their dirty shoes on his covers. Got lovely castors, has Archie.

  This is the best bit. Just watch this. Some lazy git’s just sat on Reg the recliner. He’s a bit electric. I just love it when they press the ‘upright/forward’ button and he hurls them through the air. Got one as far as soft furnishings last sale. It’s the shop record. Dead brill it was. I wish I could do that.

  Taking my covers off and checking underneath is one thing, but bouncing on my springs is something else. Get your feet off , you little sod! Where’s his mother? Nowhere, that’s where.

  Then there’s the haggling over prices, credit, how to pay and all of that. All trying to save a couple of bob. Pathetic. Champagne taste and beer money, most of them.

  The thing about being a futon though, is they open you up, fold you down, sit on you, lie on you, bounce on you without so much as a ‘by your leave’. And I’m supposed to take it lying down! There’s no justice. Bugger the sales.

  Furniture

  By Graham Thomas

  Silence now hangs over the room, muted as if covered by a blanket of soft gossamer down. Delicate dust motes dance daintily in the dappling light beam that pierces slanted through the curtain gap. And the furniture stands stock still, silent. The piano, grand by any standard, keys once so lovingly caressed by his gentle fingers, now stands proud and elegant, untouched for an age. While he played, she would sit at the davenport writing letters, striking her own notes, as it were, while simply musing over thoughts and dreams of what might have been, should have been. Thoughts once treasured, cherished, all unfulfilled. And at those times, she listened to his playing of music that wafted softly through the air, melodic, temperate, yet full of passion and the gift of life.

  Ah yes. That precious gift of life. How their thoughts at times such as these would so often drift wistfully through their imaginings to the beloved cot bought years ago and which had stood upstairs, untouched and unoccupied since. Since when? It matters not, now.

  With passing time he gradually played less and less, fingers stiff, unsure, mind engaged elsewhere. Her writing became uneven, untidy and shaky with longer rests between letters and, as before, never posted. The cot, standing draped in white, soft covering, its own protective womb. Alone. Of all the things that had bound them, this furniture had been their constant bond and fellow life-traveller.

  And the illuminated dust motes appear to glide effortlessly, trapped in the sun’s beam as it continues its inevitable westward journey, causing comforting darkness to descend once more. Silent streaming tears had long since ceased.

  And they are gone.

  A change of mind or maybe a change of heart

  By Laurie Gilbert

  I met Anthea along the road. It was good to see her after such a long time, but I got a bit anxious when she invited me to visit. I remembered what she’d said about her unit last time I saw her. I’d been intrigued when she said she was eliminating furniture from her life. She said her unit was small and she needed the space. She’d get by with floor cushions, one bar stool, and a roll-up bed on the floor like the Japanese use. Books were her biggest storage problem so she’d stack them on the floor in the corners with the spines outwards so she could get the one she wanted.

  When I asked if there was any other reason for giving up on furniture she laughed and said, ‘The truth is I am learning to fly and the lessons are so expensive that I can’t afford furniture, but I think it would be good to keep life simple anyway.’

  The reason I am anxious now is that I’ve got a really bad knee and don’t know if I can get down to a floor cushion without hurting it. And as for getting up from the floor. That’s a no, no.’ Maybe I could make some excuse to just stand against her kitchen bench. I suppose there is one of those.

  I started to laugh when she opened the door and couldn’t stop.

  She said, ‘What’s the joke?’ I couldn’t talk and
just pointed. She had one of those luxurious old leather lounge suites, an oak dining table with six antique chairs, a floor to ceiling book shelf that would look right in the best of libraries, and when I looked in the bedroom there was a four-poster bed with medieval drapes. Not much space but lots of furniture.

  Puzzled for a minute, she remembered. ‘My pilot instructor is an antique dealer and this is my way of keeping in touch. I don’t have much room, but I do have hope. I do love my furniture.’

  Rosewood chest

  By Nene Davies

  Imagine a rosewood chest of drawers, gleaming in its rich and care-for glory, standing proudly in a regal hallway. Rosewood is lovingly dusted, admired and superior. It's beautiful, but unhelpful. No-one dares to dump a friendly coffee cup down - Rosewood's delicate skin would blemish. Occasionally, a crystal vase of flowers - on a mat of course - lends even more refinement to this handsome creature.

  Rosewood's sorry cousin, a mass-produced disgrace of pinewood and cheap fittings, hides in the shed. Pinewood's drawers are full of nails and screws, its top a mess of junk and paint splatters. Its coat an awful lime-green relic of the 70's.

  Who's to say which piece is more valuable?

  I'd rather have a sturdy friend to keep my nuts and bolts together, who'll roll up its sleeves and doesn't mind the mess, than a stranger standing coldly on a pedestal, too grand to offer a helping hand.

  I bought a house

  By Nene Davies

  I bought a house on Monday

  And nearly had a fit.

  I'll have to fill it up one day -

  I'll need a lot of kit.

  I went to town on Tuesday -

  I had to buy a chair.

  I've had a look on e-bay,

  But really, I don't care.

  By Wednesday I was stressing.

  My carpet looked all wrong.

  The rug was quite depressing,

  But I got it for a song.

  Thursday was a good day,

  The chairs and table matched.

  The bed was big, I must say

  Though the sides were slightly scratched.

  By Friday I was saying