Just Get It Out There

Just Get It Out There

  An Anthology of Creative Writing

  from the Steel City Writers

  Copyright © 2012 Steel City Writers

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  Table of Contents

  1. Introduction

  2. Woman with the Tombstone Teeth (Flash Fiction)

  3. Crossing the Yangtze (Short story)

  4. Mouse (Flash Fiction)

  5. Billy (Short story)

  6. Ice (Poem)

  7. Night Journey (Poem)

  8. Birthday Surprise (Flash Fiction)

  9. Memories in Sepia (Short story)

  10. A Poem About Writing A Poem (Poem)

  11. Excruciating Itching (Poem)

  12. Past Glory (Flash Fiction)

  13. The Forbidden Room (Short story)

  14. Aunty Lil (Poem)

  15. Father's father (Poem)

  16. A Late Call (Flash Fiction)

  17. Walk a Mile (Short story)

  References

  About the Authors

  Just get it out there – introduction

  I've taught across a number of different disciplines, from English as a foreign Language to English Literature, Journalism, and Creative Writing. By far, the most engaging experience for me has been teaching Creative Writing students. In addition to that, some of the most interesting work I've come across has been produced by students with non-traditional educational backgrounds. The Open University has a lot to do with that. Recently, working on a project in Blackburn confirmed that for me, when a reading by a contributor to our anthology who had never written before, got such a tremendous response from the audience. Perhaps there isn't a book in everyone, but everyone does have a story to tell. In the same way that we can all learn to drive, to cook, to play virtual tennis with a plastic back, we can all find ways to tell our stories. The writers you will see here have all started that process and have decided to share some of their findings with us here.

  It was a nice surprise to hear from a group of past students. I always want to keep in touch with previous Creative Writing students but it doesn't always happen – life is hectic, people move on or worry about keeping in touch. When you come across students with a real passion and drive for writing, a reason behind their enrolment on the course, a unique investment in words and stories, you cannot help but want to go the extra mile. To maintain that contact, to take an interest in their progression, and hope you at least had some part to play in that.

  I was touched to receive an email from a previous student, Craig Hallam, representing the group of writers you will see showcased here. Did I want to write an introduction? Of course. Did I want to contribute a story? Of course I did. It's my pleasure to introduce a selection of stories from 'Yorkshire's newest writers', who also happen to be some thoroughly lovely people with a real passion for storytelling. I hope you enjoy their collection.

  Dr Sarah Dobbs

 

  Woman with the Tombstone Teeth

  By Dr Sarah Dobbs

  She’s the woman you hate talking to in work. The one with the once-blonde hair that can't be described as anything else but balding. You can see her skin, shining, through her hair. She criticises your work in that knowing, deep-throated sort of way. She smells slightly vinegary. She’s saddled with menopausal girth, caked in fat, huffing about, banging on about the mousy girl on the second floor who isn't 'doing herself any favours'. She makes you wince when she rips into that sausage roll and bacon sarnie combo, brown sauce oozing and pastry flaking over morgue-marbled skin. You wonder if it's cold to touch. She talks in conspiratorial whispers about her sexual adventures in London hotels, making you fork about with the sweetcorn on your plate.

  And then she pats her nose with powder and you notice how nice her nails are, long and lovingly planed, the colour the inside-of-shells pink. She raises a tentative eyebrow as she peers into her Clinique compact. A hopeful question, like a young girl checking they're still pretty. Click, the compact shuts and her lips are tight. It wasn't the answer you wanted. You feel the pinch of regret, doused in a hot-cold flash of fear. One day, you'll be looking in that mirror, picking flaky pastry out of your tombstone teeth.

  Crossing the Yangtze

  By Andy Stratton

  He’d missed the ferry.

  Ian threw a pebble into the Yangtze mud.

  It made a sucking sound.

  He spotted a large dark bird flying low over the river upstream. It might have been a crane.

  He threw another pebble high up into the sky. It arched up and then down.

  It made a sucking sound as well.

  He looked behind at his overloaded Hesketh V1000 Vampire motorbike; parked outside a McDonalds. All along the road there were shuttered up concrete warehouses. A man came out of one. Ian watched. The man walked further up the road then went out of sight behind another warehouse.

  He’d had to freewheel the bike down to the ferry crossing. There was a petrol sign pointing over the river. He stared across at the dirty grey buildings on the other bank. He couldn’t see any pumps.

  He glanced at his watch; twelve hours until the next ferry.

  Ian sat in McDonalds nursing a cup of bitter, stewed coffee. He smiled at the bored looking waiter, who smiled back.

  He looked round at the empty tables. The menu shouted at him in Chinese. The waiter smiled at him. He smiled back.

  He stifled a yawn and looked out the window at the deserted road. He could see his bike parked just outside.

  He started when the waiter coughed behind him.

  ‘You like Manchester United?’ He turned to see the waiter smiling, about six feet away from him.

  ‘Oh, er, not really, I’m a Pompey fan.’

  The waiter’s smile slipped a little. ‘Pumpy?’

  ‘No. Portsmouth.’

  ‘Portsmouth. Yes. English football great.’ The smile was back.

  ‘Thank you. Um goy.’

  The waiter nodded his head politely and walked back behind the counter. Moments later the door jangled open and a grey haired Chinese woman came in with a large white parcel. She started talking at the waiter at great speed, thrust the parcel at him and then talked her way outside.

  Ian saw the waiter carefully place the parcel under the counter. Looking outside, he could see the woman walking up the road, still talking.

  The waiter coughed behind him again. ‘You like more coffee. Compliments of house.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

  The waiter fetched him another coffee. ‘Enjoy.’

  Ian smiled, ‘Um Goy’.

  The waiter smiled back. ‘You like Elvis Presley?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s great.’

  ‘Pumpy great, Presley great.’ The waiter smiled again and returned to his place behind the counter.

  Ten hours to go. The coffee was having its expected effect. Ian looked for a toilet but there were no obvious signs. He went over to the smiling waiter. ‘Is there a toilet I can use? Too much coffee.’

  ‘Another coffee?’

  ‘No thank you. I need a toilet.’

  No response.

  He made a hand washing movement.

  ‘Ah. Toilet. Please to wait.’

  The waiter went and locked the front door, turned the sign on the front round and retrieved the parcel. He beckoned to Ian, quite serious now. He led him through the kitchen and out the back door. The sun was quite low now and th
e sky was tinged pink and yellow. The waiter climbed up a metal staircase to a door above the restaurant.

  Ian stepped into a small hall. In front of him was a photograph of the waiter, smiling and holding a McDonalds employee of the month award. The waiter pointed to a picture of Elvis. ‘Elvis Presley. Very, very good. Toilet this way.’

  Ian followed him into an open plan sitting room with a small kitchen in the corner. The waiter pointed to a slightly open door. ‘Toilet in there. Please use.’

  Ian stepped into the smallest bathroom he’d ever seen. He turned carefully to find the door had no lock. Wedging his foot to stop the door swinging open, he managed to relieve himself without any mishap. He washed his hands and shook them dry.

  He opened the door. The first thing he saw was the parcel open on a settee, inside there was some white tissue paper. He opened the door further.

  The waiter stood there in full rhinestone regalia.

  ‘We sing Elvis now?’

  Ian’s head throbbed as they pushed his bike onto the ferry. After he’d parked, he turned and shook the waiter’s hand. ‘Thank you for all your help.’

  ‘You welcome, Yan.’ The waiter smiled. ‘Next time see you, I go English, Yes?’

  He smiled weakly back, ‘Yes. You’re welcome.’

  The night before had passed in a haze of Elvis songs and warm beer. More Chinese men had arrived with several cases of beer. The waiter had toasted everyone with Gan By and downed his glass. Ian and friends had followed suit. After the waiter had sung a fascinating rendition of Blue Suede Shoes, a friend had toasted ‘soo yi’; whoever she was. Ian emptied his glass and the waiter refilled it, smiling. He remembered more toasts and singing, including himself singing Are you lonesome tonight? He’d woken, with a headache to split bamboo, to find the waiter offering him an egg McMuffin and a paper cup of stewed coffee.

  The ferry sounded a klaxon; it seemed to be inside Ian’s head. The waiter hurried to the shore.

  The ferry started moving, Ian ran to the back and shouted across the widening dirty grey water.

  ‘I don’t know your name.’

  The waiter looked confused. ‘Jing Li?’

  ‘Zy jan, Jing Li.’

  ‘Bye bye Yan.’ The waiter waved for a while, getting smaller and smaller, then gave a final wave and walked back into the McDonalds. Ian turned to face the northern bank, hoping to see the promised petrol station.

  Ian blinked slowly as he filled the tank of his bike. The fumes made him feel even more ill and he felt as if he were still on the swaying ferry.

  With the tank full and paid for, Ian sat next to his bike and leant against a low wall. His mouth felt as dusty as the road and his eyes like thousand-year-old eggs. He could see the ferry heading back to the other side. He closed his eyes, just for a few seconds.

  ‘Hello, can you hear me?’ He opened his eyes. An out of focus blond was bending over him. ‘Oh good, you’re awake at last. I saw the bike. Are you English as well?’

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes. She was still there; painfully white teeth, big eyes, slim legs. She looked the picture of health and cleanliness. He hoped she liked the unwashed, dishevelled look.

  ‘Yes, I’m English.’ He stood up, trying not to sway.

  ‘Thank God. The name’s Elizabeth.’ She stuck out a hand that he automatically shook. Her shake was firm and quick. She continued, ‘I’ve been stuck without civilised company for a week. Ever since Joanna buggered off back to Hongkers. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving. There’s a good place to eat up the hill. Why don’t we go there?’

  Elizabeth’s 250cc AJS Regal Raptor strained up the steep road out of the river valley. The Hesketh purred effortlessly up the hill; though Ian thought he could hear a slight blowing sound. They stopped by a corrugated shack, with tables and chairs scattered outside.

  Elizabeth took off her helmet and shook out her long hair. ‘A friend recommended the lion’s head meatballs. I’ll order for you.’

  When they were sitting down, a middle aged Chinese woman came out with two glasses of water, placed them on the table and nodded to them. ‘English menu?’

  Elizabeth responded in a stream of Chinese. The woman went back inside. ‘I’ll be surprised if she gets the order right. You do like tea, don’t you?’

  ‘Tea’s fine. What I’d really like is an aspirin.’

  Elizabeth went over to her bike and dug around in some expensive looking leather panniers. She returned to the table and tossed him a packet of pills.

  ‘You need to keep out of the sun. Drink lots of water and tea.’

  ‘Thanks. It was the beer last night and Soo Yi that gave me this head.’

  She sighed. ‘Let me guess. You started drinking with the Chinese. You kept paying for the drinks and at some point, you lost your money.’

  He swallowed down his pills with some water. ‘I didn’t pay for any drinks and I haven’t lost any money.’

  ‘Well they must have been after something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re in rural China. You won’t make friends here. You might think you can, but they’re just after your money.’

  ‘I have a friend, Jing Li, who works … by the ferry crossing. But you speak Chinese, surely you have lots of Chinese friends.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the cultural differences. You wouldn’t find yourself any closer to them, even if you spoke their language. Stick with your own kind.’

  ‘I don’t agree. People are people wherever they come from.’

  Elizabeth paused briefly. ‘Your breath smells.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I meant to tell you earlier. There’s a washroom over there.’

  Ian splashed some more water on his face, feeling refreshed and cleaner. Out of the open window he could see Elizabeth climb on her bike and kick it into life.

  ‘Hold on’, he shouted, ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ She shouted back. ‘Oh, and for your information, Jing Li means manager.’

  He sat down alone at the table, next to two steaming bowls, two small cups and a pot of tea.

  The tea had an aroma of lilac and tasted of honey and gunpowder. Ian had never drunk anything quite so delicious. The meatballs were a masterpiece, firm on the outside and almost jelly like inside. The flavours of barbequed meat, rare steak, lemon, spices, soy and sweet honey, mixed together in a mouth watering feast.

  Ian sat on his bike with the engine ticking over.

  He looked up the hill.

  He looked down the hill.

  He revved the engine and let out the clutch.

  Half down the hill, the gasket blew.

  The ferry juddered to a halt. Ian pushed the bike up the ramp towards McDonalds. As he parked, the waiter came out.

  ‘Hello Yan. You back quick.’

  ‘Hi … Jung Li? I need a mechanic.’ Ian pointed at the gasket.

  ‘We go this way, yes?’

  After ten minutes of dusty, sweaty pushing, they stopped next to a green shuttered warehouse. The waiter helped Ian park.

  ‘I back soon.’ He went up a narrow alley at the side of the warehouse.

  A few minutes later the shutter rolled up with a rattling of chain. The waiter came out and helped Ian push the bike into a metal workshop filled with lathes, drills, welding torches, hoists and other equipment. Engines and parts of cars and bikes lay around. A strong smell of oil filled the space. A Chinese man in clean blue overalls came out of a small office and nodded to them both.

  The waiter started talking to the man, pointing at the gasket. After a short conversation, he turned to Ian.

  ‘He say easy job. You look here.’

  He beckoned Ian over to the back of the workshop, where there were several sidecars, some war-time and others of modern fibre glass construction.

  ‘Mechanic want export sidecar to English. Which one you like best?’

  Ian pointed at a red fifties-style rocket, complete with chrome ba
rs curving to a circular nose cone.

  ‘That would sell in England.’

  He was back in the McDonalds. The waiter had given him a complimentary coffee and burger, then left by the back door.

  The front door jangled open and in came the grey haired woman, wearing a McDonalds uniform. She went behind the counter, talking away.

  He picked at his burger, which tasted like cardboard after his earlier meal. The coffee hadn’t changed, it was still like liquid tar. Then he heard the distinctive sound of his bike outside. He went over to the counter. The woman stopped talking and put a hand up to her ear, where she pulled out a wireless earpiece.

  Ian smiled. ‘Where is Jung Li?’

  The woman gave a gappy smile and pointed to herself. ‘Jung Li.’

  ‘No.’ He pointed up to the ceiling. ‘He lives upstairs.’

  The woman pointed out of the door.

  Outside, the mechanic parked his bike in front of him and switched off the engine. Attached to the bike was the red rocket sidecar, gleaming in the sun.

  ‘What’s this?’ Ian stuttered. ‘Is this some kind of scam?’

  The mechanic stepped off the bike and handed him the keys.

  ‘Bye bye Yan.’ He walked off up the street without a backward glance, leaving Ian looked bemused at his bike.

  The waiter walked round the corner. He was carrying a small holdall and wearing mirrored sunglasses, a black open face helmet and black leather jacket with matching trousers. He stowed the holdall in the sidecar and turned to smile at Ian.

  ‘We go English now?’

  Mouse

  By Christie Adams

  A butterfly wing can cause a hurricane. Today Melissa met her butterfly.

  Melissa stood on the platform, her short brown hair embellished with a pink daisy pinned just above her left ear. Her heavy fringe rippling slightly in the dust filled, unpredictable gasps that blew through the network of tunnels. Fellow travellers may have thought she was quite short, slightly built although not in proportion enough to say delicate; just small. Her clothes were well pressed and clean, not a statement of high fashion or rebellion as many of her young peers would parade, with appropriate proud even arrogant satisfaction; they were just clothes. Her ears were occupied by the commuter’s ever present white earphones, wires slithering away to the small bag which hung from a canvas strap strung across her chest. Her face showed no expression, no lip movement in time to music, no smiles to private jokes.