A Picture is Worth 1000 Words

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © (2012) for individual stories remains that of the named author.

  All rights reserved.

  While offered freely for personal use the stories in this collection should not be reproduced without the permission of the relevant author(s). All unauthorised commercial use is expressly prohibited. Links for the Tunbridge Wells Writers website, Facebook and Meet-Up pages can be found in the foreword of this book.

  To date, all attempts to establish copyright of the image detailed on the cover and in the foreword of this book through the distributor, AllPosters.co.uk, have proved unsuccessful. We invite the copyright owner to contact us, should they desire to do so, through the links provided elsewhere in this e-book, and would offer assurances that no financial gain has been or will be made from the use of the image in this free publication.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE TUNBRIDGE WELLS WRITERS: An Introduction

  FOREWORD: About the Project

  THE STORIES

  EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY by David Smith

  MAN'S BEST FRIEND by Martin Fletcher

  LIAISON by Kate Price

  WE'RE ALL CONNECTED by Carolyn T.Gray

  THE SHOT by Jess Mookherjee

  LA DOLCE VITA by SPF Cameron

  VERITA VERISSIMA by C.J.Hall

  LATE by Angela Allen

  SYMPATICO by David Smith

  UNSUNG HEROES by Peter Seal

  MADE IN ITALY by David Smith

  APPARITION by Kate Price

  THE TUNBRIDGE WELLS WRITERS

  An Introduction

  Tunbridge Wells Writers is a small collective of writers living in and around the much-maligned town of Tunbridge Wells in Kent. We meet once a fortnight to discuss all aspects of writing, to offer mutual support and encouragement, to swap ideas and writing tips, and, on occasion, to work together on group projects like this one. Several of us, in the great writer tradition, also like to take the opportunity to down a few glasses of wine and/or beer, which is one of the reasons we meet in a local pub. 

  Neither a fondness for alcohol nor residence in Tunbridge Wells are prerequisites for membership of the group, however, so if you, dear reader, have similar literary ambitions but prefer soft drinks or live elsewhere please feel free to join us either in the flesh or through our website and/or Facebook page which are found -     

  Here: Website

  and Here: Facebook Page 

  We also promote the group through Meet-Up, where dates and times of upcoming meetings are always available, though the number of potential attendees is best taken with a pinch of salt as many of our members regularly forget to click on the RSVP: Meet Up Page

  ***

  FOREWORD

  About the Project

  A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words is the second group project* of the Tunbridge Wells Writers. The remit was quite a simple one; to write flash fiction stories of approximately 1000 words based on the AllPosters.co.uk distributed poster image shown below.

  We hope you will enjoy reading the stories as much as we enjoyed writing them.

  * Our first project, an audio tour ("auditoury") of Tunbridge Wells, was undertaken as part of the Electric Lantern Festival 2012, and is accessible online here: ELF 

  We hope to produce an e-book version of the ELF recordings in the very near future, which will also be available as a free download. If you enjoy the 12,000 words or so you find here please feel free to contact us for further information - The Tunbridge Wells Writers, December 2012 

  ***

  EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

  The restaurant was quiet, less than a third of its tables occupied in the lull between lunchtime and evening diners. It enjoyed a steady supply of customers from the cinema next door, but wouldn’t be filled to capacity again until the evening showings an hour or so later.

  Peter and Katie were sitting at a Goldilocks table – not too far from the attention of waiting staff but not too near to the main thoroughfare for the salad island, which even at this time of day could be noisy and distracting. They were in a booth, sitting opposite one another on plush leatherette benches with high backs that gave the illusion of privacy. Peter was wearing cream chinos and a dark blue polo shirt. Kate was wearing a pale yellow, floral-print, halter-neck sundress that showed her tanned shoulders and made her look much more grown up than her eleven years. Peter thought her achingly beautiful. He noticed she was wearing the thin silver bracelet he had recently bought her and the tiny stud earrings she had asked him for at Christmas. He wondered if she had put them on for him, or whether these were favourites she wore constantly.

  He held her hand across the table. “You’re wearing the bracelet I bought you,” he said, spinning it on her slender wrist.

  “Yes. And your earrings. I wear them most days. Haven’t you noticed before?”

  Peter felt pleased and admonished at the same time. He smiled.

  “Do you like my new dress?” she asked. “Mummy says it makes me look ever so grown up.”

  “It does, especially with your hair tied back like that. You look beautiful.”

  “Oh shut up!” she said, “You’re such a crawler.” But Peter could see she was pleased.

  She took a sip – more a slurp – from her cola then slid herself out of the booth. “I’ve got to go for a wee” she said, starting towards the toilets. Peter watched her go, his smile fading as she turned away from him. He looked at the leftovers on her plate, toyed with a discarded pizza crust before dropping it back into a salad consisting almost entirely of tomato and potato salad.

  When Katie came back she seemed distracted. “What’s up, hun?” Peter asked.

  “I’ve just remembered I’ve got homework to hand in tomorrow and I forgot to do it yesterday ‘cos Amy was round for a sleepover.”

  “Ah. Better get your finger out tonight, then. What is it, maths?”

  “Ugh! No, it’s English, thank god, easy peasy once I get started.” Katie loved reading and writing, Peter knew, and he had no doubt she would hand in something the following day that would earn her top marks.

  “So what sort of writing is it, an essay or a story?”

  “Both. Or either, I guess. We have to find a picture we like and then write a story about it. It can be anything, as long as it matches the picture.”

  “Have you chosen a picture yet?”

  “Nope. That’ll be the hardest part. I want something that’s interesting but not too easy. The other kids will probably just pick a picture of someone off the telly or something and write about them, but I don’t want a story about Eastenders or Casualty ‘cos anyone can do that.”

  Peter laughed. “Smartarse” he said, leaning across the table to rough her hair.

  “Don’t” she said, ducking her head from under his hand, annoyed.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “What about that picture there?” Peter asked, pointing to a print hanging nearby on the wall. It was a grainy black-and-white photograph of three men and a dog on a street corner. Katie turned to look, screwing her face up in concentration.

  “Actually, that could be really good,” she said, picking up her phone to take a picture of the picture. “We have to take them in to show Miss Stephens – do you think this will be alright?”

  “I’m sure it will be,” said Peter, “She’ll think you’re very resourceful. So what do you think, then, what’s the story?”

  They looked at the picture together for a minute while Katie gathered her thoughts. “Where do you think it is?” she asked, “And when?”

  “Well they don’t look British,” Peter offered. “My
guess would be Italian or French from the look of the young fella and the beer sign, but it could be Little Italy in New York too. It looks like the late fifties or early sixties from the younger guys clothes – perhaps he’s a Mafioso on his way to shoot somebody?”

  “No. He looks too happy. What’s a Mafioso?”

  “A member of the Mafia – they’re Italian criminals, a huge gang who call themselves ‘the family’.”

  “I know what the Mafia is – it’s in loads of films – I just didn’t know that other word. How do you spell it? I might use it in my story.”

  “M-A-F-I-O-S-O,” Peter waited a moment for her to repeat the letters in her head, then asked; “So what do you think then, what’s the story?”

  “Well the old men at the back are easy,” said Katie, “The one sitting on the bench is angry because he’s just found dog poo on his shoe. He knows it didn’t come from the other man’s dog but he’s angry with the dog anyway. The other old man is a bit angry too because he thinks the other man thinks the poo was from his dog and it wasn’t, but he doesn’t want to say anything in case he starts a big row...”

  “And what about the young man, is he Mafioso?”

  “No. I’ve already said, he looks too happy. Well he could be, I suppose, but he’s not on his way to kill anyone. Is he rolling a cigarette? Yuk!”

  “He could be. Or blowing someone a kiss, maybe”

  “No, he’s rolling a fag the dirty beggar... He looks kind of happy and sad, don’t you think? And smart like he’s going on a date. But then why would he look happy and sad if he was going on a date – he’d just be happy?”

  “It’s your story”, said Peter, “You tell me.”

  Katie looked again at the picture and then spoke.

  “I know: he’s like you,” she said, “a man who’s split up with his family and only gets to spend time with his daughter every other weekend. He’s happy because he will soon see her and he’s missed her terribly, but he’s sad because he knows when she goes home it will be another fortnight before he can see her again.”

  Peter was glad she was looking at the picture on the wall, knowing that it would have been impossible for his face not to register the jolt of pain he felt in his chest and stomach. He hid all of that behind a wide smile as Katie turned towards him again.

  “I think that’s a beautiful story,” he said, “and you deserve the biggest ice-cream float this place can deliver for thinking of it.”

  © David Smith (2012)

  MAN’S BEST FRIEND

  Gino's arse was getting numb. He'd been sat on this corner staring into space for what felt like hours. He hated this corner; the stench of burning tobacco hung in the air, clouding his senses. As Gino had got older his curiosity had refused to fade. He desperately wanted to explore his surroundings, perhaps meet some new friends. However the tall one had told him to stay. Stay and obey. He wasn't sure what the meaning of life was, but it certainly seemed to involve following a lot of instructions for little apparent purpose. Even at home the tall one was always on at him; don't sit there, eat this, fetch that, on and on it would go.

  He'd been sharing his apartment with the tall one for a number of years now and it was certainly a love-hate relationship. As much as Gino hated being bossed around, he hated being lonely even more. When the tall one went out in the morning, Gino would quickly get bored. He used to make the time pass by seeing how much noise he could make at the passing traffic, but that usually ended with the widow downstairs coming up and giving him a good firm kick. So these days he tended to stay quiet. Instead he'd take up his familiar place on the window sill and drift in and out of sleep as the world continued on without him.

  It had been on one such lazy afternoon that his life had been changed. Gino was snoozing on the window sill with the warmth of the sun on his back. He was having his favourite dream, the one where he chased the vast herd of sheep, when he heard the best sound in the world. It was the sound of the tall one's scooter turning into their street. As always this filled Gino with joy. He did a quick lap of their apartment, deciding which toy he was going to show the tall one today. When he heard the sound of the key in the lock, Gino dashed over to the door carrying part of his bedding and his third favourite ball. But as the door opened Gino saw that today wasn't like other days.

  The tall one stepped into their apartment with Gino desperately nipping at his ankles. He was so engrossed in this that he didn't even see the second figure enter behind them. It was only when it was clear that the tall one wasn't in the mood for fun today that Gino turned around and noticed the other one. She smelled like soap, and ever so slightly of red wine. She was tall, almost as tall as the tall one, so Gino decided that she would be called the not so tall one. After this brief assessment of his new friend he bounded over to her in order to receive the instant affection he expected when meeting new people. However she had quite an odd manner of playing, when he leapt towards her she would yelp and leap away. It was amazing fun, he launched himself at her again and the same thing happened. He managed to do it another once before the tall one grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the kitchen. He was left with a bowl of food and the kitchen door was shut behind him, it would remain shut for the rest of the evening. Gino sat for a long time waiting for the tall one to let him out, all the time trying to examine the very strange odours seeping into the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. At some point he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered was when the tall one opened the door to take him for his morning walk.

  As time went by the not so tall one was becoming a more and more frequent feature around the apartment. Gino felt as though he was living with a schizophrenic flatmate. When it was just the two of them all was well, just like it used to be. But then the not so tall one would appear, he'd try to be friends with her but was inevitably shooed away. Then he would be sent to the kitchen or they'd disappear to the bedroom. He'd be left with nothing but his own company and those strange smells that kept appearing when the tall one and not so tall one were alone together. Before long it seemed as though the not so tall one was there even more often than the tall one. She even began coming round to the apartment when the tall one wasn't there, this would inevitably be followed by him being shut away in another room again.

  One day strange boxes began arriving in the apartment. He couldn't see inside them, but they all smelled like the not so tall one. Gino had explored around them for a while but eventually got bored and returned to sunning himself on the window sill. He was eventually woken by the tall one, his eyes looked a little red and there was a salty taste when Gino licked his face. The tall one tied himself to Gino, just so neither of them got lost, and took him out of the apartment. It was a little strange to go out with the tall one at this time of day, but these were strange times and he was glad for the distraction. They had walked for what felt like an eternity before arriving at this sodding corner. The tall one had told Gino to sit and wait before walking away. He tried to follow the tall one a few times but kept getting put back. He hated being told what to do, but eventually gave up and let the tall one have his own way for once. The tall one continued to walk down the street and eventually he was lost from Gino's sight.

  There wasn't much for him to do while he was waiting, just snuffle around and try to ignore the fug of tobacco. However the sun was pleasing on his back, and so Gino decided to lie down and indulge in his new favourite dream. The one where the not so tall one was drowning in a pond, taking all those bizarre smells with her. The tall one would be back for him soon, he was sure of it.

  ©Martin Fletcher (2012).

  LIAISON

  “Nicoli?” the old man drew breath on his battered pipe letting the smoke slowly drift out through his nostrils as he spoke. He looked down at the equally elderly man, who was sat with his back against the wall.

  “Sandro?” Nicoli replied glancing up at a man not too dissimilar to himself.

  “Si,” Sandro whispered.


  “We are not supposed to meet like this, here in the open. What is the problem?” Nicoli asked looking straight ahead, barely acknowledging the man standing next to him.

  “I know Nicoli, but we have a small problem” Sandro said looking across the street trying not to draw attention to himself.

  “Would a phone call not have been a better idea?” Nicoli sighed heavily; he was too old for these problems.

  “No, the phones are monitored, you know that.” Sandro raised his voice slightly spitting out the words.

  “What after all this time?” Nicoli asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes they don’t stop just because the war is over” Sandro replied, sounding rather surprised that Nicoli thought that the monitoring had stopped.

  ***

  Nicoli and he had worked together for so many years. They had been in their 40s when they were recruited by the English against the Germans in the 1920’s. They had been fearless, dashing men who thought nothing of carrying messages from one country to another. Spying on the enemy and getting into hostile situations.

  They had concealed their secrets well, never disclosing to anyone. Not even family knew what they had done, or what they had been through. They had told their families that they were working for the war and would be gone for long periods.

  Sandro had always been the quicker one, the sharper one, and the one who knew automatically how to defend them and keep their secrets. He had been the one Nicoli had looked up to, for guidance and support.

  Nicoli was the one who was victorious, he always seemed to take the praise for their accomplishments, and he seemed to know everyone and everything. He really had become the font of all knowledge. As his own father had once said to him: Don’t underestimate intelligence and don’t overestimate knowledge. How true he thought.