Miss Take

Missy was all about stuff. Looking for stuff, gathering stuff, organising stuff and dreaming of ways to procure more of it.

If anyone was having a clear out, she was onto it. “I’ll take that”, being her catchphrase. A broken lampshade left on the street – “I’ll take that”. A friend giving away an art easel with sticky oil paints – “I’ll take that”, despite having no intentions of ever painting. Leftovers at a potluck dinner “Ok if I take that?” while simultaneously whipping the half-eaten cherry pie into a Jiffy bag.  

Although she sulked about her nickname Miss Take but could hardly argue with it.

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Making Up For A Mistake

            ‘Sometimes I wish I was someone else.’

            Bob, having finally got Edna to talk about herself, hesitated then asked: ‘Do you feel…?’

            ‘Unwanted?’

They were in a pub in Peckham, both sipping warm beer, the nineteen-fifties three days from ending.

            ‘The next decade’s going to be better,’ Bob said. ‘Attitudes are going to change.’

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Vic the NHS veteran

It was in all the papers. And everyone felt they knew old Vic because he was always in town with his little dog and his collecting cup. He liked a chat with anyone who was passing and you could often see him walking unsteadily from pitch to pitch.  People sometimes bought him a Starbucks coffee or a Greggs sausage roll rather than put money in his pot (there was a bit of a moral dilemma around giving money in case it got spent on booze, drugs or fags. My view has long been that if drugs booze or fags are just what you need, then so be it ).

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My Old Man Vamoosed

Alright I’ll tell you the score. My old man said I was a mistake, said marrying my mam was a mistake, said his whole bloody life since he first met her was a goddam major mistake.

My mam, knocked up at nineteen, possessed a good catholic heart and insisted on keeping the baby (moi) whilst her old man metaphorically whipped out his shotgun, demanding that my dad do the right thing.

Despite his pleas for adoption (if abortion was out of the question) dad decided to stick it out. At least until I was six years old, before saying: “Fuck this” and vamoosed. Yeah, picture me still with my baby teeth, being told that dad isn’t coming back. He’s not dead or sick, he just isn’t around anymore.

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Hangman

‘C?’ he says.

            C is for Claire. That’s her name. The other woman.

‘Nope.’ The gallows and most of the stick man are already finished. I draw a wiggly line for his mouth to indicate fear and trepidation. ‘One more mistake and you’re dead.’

I try to deliver the line pointedly, with ominous eye-contact, but Steve’s attention is drawn to the other side of the waiting room, where the only other person, ‘Tim Barrett,’ is being called in to see the dentist. Tim Barrett puts down the out-of-date issue of Marie Claire magazine that he has been pretending to read – precisely the reason we have resorted to pen-and-paper games – and follows the assistant into one of the clinics. A muffled greeting and a waft of disinfectant mixed with dust escape the room before the door clicks shut. There are only two dentists in this surgery, so this means Steve is next. He thinks I can’t tell, but I know his hands are sweating because he’s wiping them on his jeans.

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One Name Between Us


Photo by Michelle Gregor on Unsplash

They grew us a new body. It was ready the morning we married. It wasn’t hers, and it wasn’t mine. This was the fairest way, they said, so no one would be favoured. Our old bodies went to the furnace by evening. I signed the merge as the last act of a solitary person and woke with hands and a heart belonging to both of us.

For nine days, I was happy.

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September Prompt: Mistakes

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 03.09.26.

TASK: ‘Mistakes’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Mistakes’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.

Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 3rd September 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 06.09.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.

Use the contact page to find out where to send your stories.

Late Bloomers

Noah was still taking a deep, pollen-filled breath beneath the wisteria when Carrie opened the door. He hadn’t yet manifested his Cat-Shelter-Worker persona, let alone pressed the doorbell.

            He’d always thought the photos of Carrie in those speculative articles were filtered, but here she was, not a line on her sixty-year-old face. Her sharp blue eyes narrowed as she regarded him.

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Huw and Cry

The pub door opened and a large figure, like a swollen keg of ale, rolled into the premises. Another equally rotund chap was at his heels. The first one, Huw ‘Jars’ Scanlan, spilt himself into the largest chair in the bar, the second, Hugh ‘Janus’ O’ Keefe, purchased two pints of stout. He carried them across to the table with the reverence of a court servant carrying an embroidered cushion for a monarch. The cream crowns atop the beer maintained unruffled dignity during their journey.

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Spartacus Influences Union Strategy

The management plan was never going to work, obviously. An NVQ in business studies simply didn’t cover these aspects of workforce management. By the end of the day the situation had descended into a plan for saving managerial face and finally releasing everyone to their homes and local pubs. The union managed to extract a promise of overtime at quadruple rates in return for waiving any right to begin legal action alleging unlawful, enforced detention in a workplace.

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Dear Juniper

Juniper loved the walk from the cottage to the battered blue post box at the end of her lane. Her steps took on a lightness as she padded barefoot, swaying with baby Violet tucked on her hip, high on the savoury aroma of wild garlic. Pale yellow primroses, cowslips and bluebells caught the bucolic spring sunshine. This corner of Dorset would always be home. Her mother and grandmother had grown up here. It was here that Juniper could better remember her mother Astrid – the arc of her nose, the daffodil chains they had made, the scent of milky rice pudding straight from the Aga.

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The Prompt for July is “Confession”

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 02.07.26.

TASK: ‘Confession’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Confession’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.

Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 2nd July 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 05.07.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.

A Cultural Climate

The dwarf realm of Barin-Ti had held strong for a thousand years but now it was dreadfully sick.

The native dwarves had resisted the attacks of the warriors of Am-Nor and An-Morn, defending themselves with axes and cannons, refusing to surrender.

Only now a more persistent and insidious threat had appeared. These new invaders method of conquest was importing huddled masses, coming to the dwarf kingdom in hopes of a better life.

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Gumboot and the Meteorologist

‘Trail my wife and get me evidence of hanky-panky. That way I can divorce the bitch cheaply.’ The guy, Ben Blaidd, had mean eyes that might have been filched from a rat. Then he hissed, ‘I want dirt, I want grubby.’

I’m Johnny Gumboot, private detective. Grubbiness, you could say, is engrained in my calling. Blaidd added that his missus was seeing an audiologist whom he referred to as Huw Jeers. Was that the man’s name or his affliction?

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Goodbye

Phil Moody crouched beside his daughter as she sat cross-legged on the wet sand, and tucked his coat around his knees. Jeez, he thought, the weather forecast wasn’t wrong about the change.

“What are you doing, love?”

Arabella had her palms pressed flat to the sand, head tilted, as though listening for something underneath.

“Saying goodbye.”

“Goodbye to what?”

“My friends.”

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Prompt for May 2026 – Climate

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 28.05.26.

TASK: ‘Climate’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘Climate’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.

Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 28th May 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 31.05.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.

Send all homework to Pat

Beneath the Froth

The door to the coffee shop tinkles as Charlotte opens it. At first glance, it bears no resemblance to the busy hairdressers it used to be, though there is something familiar in the warmth that envelops her the moment she steps inside.

            It’s called ‘Froth,’ which Charlotte considers an appropriately shallow name for a place that was once called ‘Vanity Hair.’ On the surface, it was just somewhere you came to fix your hair. But the healing went deeper than that. People left feeling better about themselves on the inside as well as the outside.

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Glorious Vanity

 Bob Hawkins nudged his empty pint glass across the beaten copper of the barroom table. Opposite him sat Jim “Kipper” Jones, whose weather-beaten face was an object lesson in why digging roads through West Wales winters was no career for an aspiring film star, especially not after thirty years. Bob was no picture himself, either. His lived-in face topped a scrawny frame wrapped in a Gannex mac two sizes too big, fished from the back rail of an Oxfam shop fifteen years earlier.

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