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A selection of short stories by Linda Smethurst
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The following passage was inspired by my passion for horses and love of the coast. If you have never ridden a galloping horse or strode along a windswept beach then imagine yourself doing so as you read on.
WINTER
Bob Hilton’s Fish & Chip shop is the last to shut. The tourist season has ended. Our town is quiet again, no holidaymakers, no boat rides, no stalls offering ice drinks in a rainbow of colours. Best of the all the beach is ours, the restrictions are lifted, and dogs and horses are allowed on the beach again.
As usual we all meet at the stables early Saturday morning. Free of the restraints of work and responsibilities, we relish this time. Julie and I are always last and get ready in a flurry of borrowed brushes, hats, and saddles.
We clatter down the lane, carpeted with fallen leaves, dew soaked webs adorn the hedges; the horses breath creates a magical fog all around us. The wind snatches our conversations and tosses them away with fury. The horses jostle for position in the narrow lane, snorting and prancing as we emerge onto the traffic free street. We pass by the fairground; it now looks lonely, hibernating until spring.
Slowly we descend the slipway, down onto the golden canvas ahead, all the horses dance in anticipation. I try to hold back as I know Savannah will race the others and set too fast a pace. Julies horse, Ollie is well matched with Savannah, and we often gallop side by side. This is just as well for as long as I have known Julie she has fallen from Ollie on nearly every ride. He has the uncanny ability to drop his shoulder and turn his head at the most inconvenient time. The rider has no choice but to exit swiftly and land in a crumpled heap at his feet. If you manage to cling on, Ollie adds a little buck to assist you on your way.
The horses set off, the biting wind making the skin on our faces tingle. We settle into a slow canter and head for the sea. Water explodes from each hoof as we race along the shallows. The tide is coming in and as we gallop faster, the white horses toss their heads and rear up to race with us. A herd of wild horses whipped up from winter seas. Savannah pulls ahead and with adrenalin racing I sense her will to go faster. The shoreline stretches for miles ahead of us, no obstacles in our way. All summer the beach has entertained all who used it; the seas rang with laughter as the children played at its edge. Now it is wild, the untouched beauty revealed as clouds build overhead. The rain begins to beat down. Horses and riders intoxicated with the moment deep down sense the turn in the weather. Riders check their horses, gently pulling on reins until the spell of the wild gallop is broken.
We ease to a canter reluctantly turning the horses towards the sands. As we turn I notice Ollie’s rein dangling at my ankle, reaching down I catch sight of my sand splattered friend. Without a word, I hand Ollie over to her. He snorts triumphantly as she climbs aboard, seawater dripping from her clothes. The horses steam in the cold air, we head for home. The thoughts of dry clothes and warmth encourage us on. As we trot up the slipway, I hesitate; the tide is almost in now and the waves are beginning to crash against the sea wall. I can’t wait till next Saturday!
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The following piece is an exercise we were asked to do. I enjoyed writing this as I will explain at the end.
A day in my life – imaginery.
The azure jewel stretches before me as the boat gallops through the water like a playful puppy. A busy day stretches ahead of us as we have data and water samples to collect, sightings to record and hopefully tagging of newborns.
The boat glides to a stop and with a final check that all equipment is safe, my diving buddy and I drop into the water.
As we enter this alien world we immediately see a dark shadow passing to the left of us. At once, I recognise the familiar shape of the female sperm whale I have been studying. Her calf, bumping along at her side, has grown since my last sighting and this is a positive sign.
This calm scene is interrupted, as a young male dolphin dances towards me. His whistles and squeaks like the excited chatter of a child on an outing. I reach out to rub his head and he responds with a myriad of noises, almost like laughter. With a flick of his tail, he darts up to the surface, disappears from view, then a torpedo rockets towards me, comes to a complete stop and offers its belly to be rubbed.
I twist and twirl with him, dive under and around him, he squeals with delight, then rises to float motionless alongside me. I envy the freedom he enjoys in the water. Even the lightest of diving equipment makes me feel clumsy.
Then without warning, my new friend spins around and darts away to join the large pod of dolphins that are now playing under our boat.
My workplace is home to numerous multicoloured living things. Each one a precious jewel in the emerald sea. Every dive rewards me with new breathtaking experiences and I am in awe of this enchanting environment.
The many tourist boats that frequent these waters could endanger the very animals they come to see. Our job is to carefully monitor the impact of any human activity in these waters. All cetacean and marine life is carefully checked, supervised and recorded daily.
My partner signals we are to return to the surface. For today our dive is over and reluctantly we must leave.
I glide slowly to the surface as a young ray swims with me, his movements are as precise and controlled as a prima ballerina. As I approach the surface, I become aware of the weight of my oxygen tank and begin to I feel awkward in his presence.
Back in the boat the sun dries and warms my skin, my body aches with tiredness but longs to return to the water. The boat bounces along as the pod of dolphins race in the bow waves. They fly through the water with such grace and power that we are transfixed.
After logging all my data into the computer I begin to ready my diving equipment for the next dive. Hopefully the dolphin pod will visit us again and show us how to really play in the water.
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Why did I enjoy this piece so much? Well, I can't swim a stroke and this will be the closest I will get to diving!
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I was inspired to write the following as I slowly made my way home through the drudgery of another traffic jam. Nestled amongst a row of well kept houses was a large detached family house, neglected and unloved. My thoughts wandered. I imagined the memories the occupants had of their lives in this old house. That evening I wrote this piece.
Lot 77 – The Gatehouse
“I’d give this one a miss, looks like it’s falling down,” whispered David. “There’s a fair bit of land with it, but you’d never get planning permission for anything. There’s a preservation order.”
“Let’s just see what is goes for. I know this house,” interrupted Anthony.
At first there was no interest, but competition between two developers had brought the price up to £450,000. His friend was right, to buy this house was financial suicide, but this was The Gatehouse. Anthony raised his card, entering the bidding war.
“Sold to the gentleman seated at the back. Your number sir?”
Anthony raised his card.
“I don’t know why you ask my advice, you never listen. In fact, you never listen to anyone. You do know you have bought a heap of trouble. You’ll never make your money back let alone a profit,” mumbled David.
Anthony was only half listening.
David knew his friend would do things his way, whether it was right or wrong. Anthony had made his fortune with a simple invention, one of many, but the only one that ever made any money. He had his own way of doing things. David, his best friend, always did things the right way, conforming to society, rules, reason and order. As an accountant he was always wary when Anthony went off on another hare-brained scheme.
Holding the key Anthony was strangely nervous. Many times, he and his friends had played in this garden, climbed the trees and made countless dens in the undergrowth. The old couple that had lived at the house then, having no children of their own, had taken great pleasure in being surrogate grandparents to all the neighbourhood offspring. When they had died, the house, along with the beautiful garden, had been left to its own devices. Being bequeathed to some charity, the cost of the upkeep had been its downfall. Now it stood, a skeletal figure lost in a wilderness of neglect.
Anthony unlocked the door and with an effort, he persuaded the heavy oak door to allow him inside. Feeling like an intruder, he gingerly went from room to room. The dust and decay was overwhelming. Cobwebs hung like grey curtains all around, giving the surfaces and windows an eerie presence.
Anthony laid his hand on the banister rail; the smooth comfortable feel of the rail was familiar. Walking with care up the stairs, his hand unknowingly caressed the rail. At the top of the stairs he looked down and smiled. He was a boy again, with all the awkwardness that entailed, and all the fun. He just had to do it - he was never told off then and would certainly not be told off now. He climbed up, sitting astride the treacle toffee coloured rail, oblivious to the danger, the dust, whether he should or shouldn’t, he released his grip.
Grinning madly all the way, he glided down. Swirling round, he threw his head back and laughed. All the memories flooded back. His friends, the vast space and freedom this house had given him,
“What on earth are you doing?” His thoughts were interrupted by his friend, David. “I couldn’t resist,” grinned Anthony.
“You are crazy! Do you know that, it could collapse any minute? ” David spluttered and handed Anthony a hard, yellow safety hat.
“I have had a look outside and jotted down some suggestions. We can secure the site and make a start this week if you like,” continued David, always the professional and always the sensible one, his roll of blueprints now carpeted in dust.
“Anthony, are you listening? And get off that banister - it’s not safe!”
“I think I am falling in love again,” stuttered Anthony. “I needed this house when I was a child and now it needs me. I want to restore it, not modernise it, I don’t want to convert it to flats, to sell it on to a developer. I’m going to live here.”
“Well get off, let me have a go, but don’t you dare tell anyone about this - I have my reputation to think of, “ yelled David as he charged upstairs.
“It’s working its charm on you already, “
“What is?”
“The house - my house,” grinned Anthony.
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This last story was written for readers of eight to ten years - but I think all readers will enjoy it.
New Friends
Katy followed the giggling group of girls as they tumbled into class. Her first day at Ashley Brook School was as scary as she had imagined.
“I don’t know anyone, I will never get through today it’s just not fair,” she mumbled to herself.
“Quiet please! Everyone sit down!” Boomed Miss Evans.
As the others made their way to their places Katy quickly looked around for somewhere to sit.
“Oh you’re the new girl, you can sit there next to Emma your name’s Katy isn’t it?” Miss Evans said and pointed to the spare seat.
Katy nodded, her face turned bright red and she quickly moved towards the empty chair.
“That’s not fair Miss, Louise sits next to me,” moaned Emma.
“Well you’re both working better now you are separated, you can see Louise at break.”
“Oh no Miss! You said we’d only be split up for a week,” interrupted Emma.
“Emma, don’t argue! Katy, sit down!” Miss Evans smiled at Katy and the class settled for the morning lessons.
At break Emma jumped up, ignoring Katy she found Louise and followed the rest of the class outside. Katy stayed in her seat.
“Aren’t you going outside with the others?”
“Could I stay in Miss?” Asked Katy.
“Oh, go one then, just this once.” She mumbled and strode out to the school -yard.
In the silence of the empty classroom, Katy began to think of home.
She thought of the deep snowy winters, when she and her friends made snow-angels. Of the time when a bear wandered into town, leaving huge dinner plate footprints in the mud near the school gate. She thought of the orphaned wolf cub her class had sponsored.
Now, she was here in a strange country, an un-friendly school and with people who didn’t like her - she was very homesick. Tears began to prick her eyes and she hurriedly rubbed her face - she didn’t want anyone to see her cry.
Searching through her school bag for a tissue, Katy found her drawing pad.
“I know I’ll draw the bear,” she thought.
Katy’s pencil flashed this way and that, forming neat curves and careful lines. The bear began to appear on the crisp white page. She was lost in her own world, the pleasure of her drawing made her feel warm and happy.
Now she drew the wolf cub remembering every detail. There on the page she drew its round fat belly and long tail. Then the details of its face, the black button nose and neat eyes.
“Katy that’s brilliant! I didn’t know you could draw!” Shrieked Emma
Katy froze. The class had returned from break and were now gathering around her.
“Where did you copy them from?”
“Can you draw anything?”
“Did you just do it now?”
“Have you seen a bear?”
“The bear came into town and passed right next to our school!” Katy stuttered to the crowd, “and the cub, well my class raised money to help him, because his mother was killed.”
“You had bears, real bears, near your school! Wow - how cool is that! Shouted Emma.
“She’s a bit loud, you will have to forgive her, but she’s a good mate,” whispered Louise as she sat next to Katy, her gaze fell onto the drawings.
“We go to an art club at lunchtime, why don’t you come with us?” Louise asked softly.
“Yeah! Come with us please, I’m sorry I was mean before but Miss Evans is always splitting us up, she says we talk too much,” said Emma.
“Miss, come and look what Katy’s done, Miss! Miss!”
“Emma, don’t shout!” Miss Evans said as she approached the crowd.
“So we have another artist in the class - someone else for you to talk to Emma.”
The girls giggled and the class began to settle into the mid morning lessons.
At last it was lunchtime, Katy and her two new friends dashed from class to Art Club.
“Hello girls, my name’s Mr Taymore, I’m your new art teacher.”
“Hi dad,” whispered Katy.
“Dad!” Squealed Emma.
“Yes, that’s why we left Canada, Dad got a job teaching art here.”
“Oh, how exciting, you’ll have to tell us all about your old school and everything,” said Louise.
Emma was speechless!
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