The stories below were written in the early 1990s, a time when I wrote over a hundred in a couple of years. Some may appear dated today, but I broke my storytelling teeth on them.
WARNING: Some stories may contain disturbing scenes.
OVER THE GARDEN FENCE
Fred Daniels loved his lawn almost as much as he loved his street. And as with the lawn, if a weed appeared on the street, he was apt to try to pluck it out. Well, he would wouldn't he?
'She's there again,' he said as he ceased his mowing to point and look.
Bob Freer straightened his back and took his own look over the fence. 'Hmm,' he said, shaking his head, ‘lowers the whole tone of the street.'
Across the street the lady who had taken their attention went about her business, locking her car and letting herself into her new house. A teacher by profession, she was, however, a single parent, and it was this factor - her lack of a husband - that had brought her to their attention.
'What she gets up to in that house would make your hair curl,' said Fred.
'So I've heard,' said Bob. 'Jack, down the street, said he'd seen this fella leaving at two o'clock the other morning.'
Fred sighed. 'I've heard that, too. Left with a hell-uva smile on his face, by all accounts.'
'I can believe it.'
'And it's not the first time.'
'No, it isn't.'
'The other week there was a couple of 'em in there. You could hear loud music and laughing and all sorts of carry on.'
'Peter told me he saw her walk past the open window with one of them, and neither had a stitch on.'
'It makes you wonder.'
'It sure does.'
'And what about those kids? Is it any way to bring kids up, surrounded by smut and all sorts like that?'
The two tutted in unison.
'And her a teacher.'
A shake of heads.
'But what does she teach - that's what I'd like to know.'
'Biology, no doubts.'
'And have you seen what she's planted in her garden,' said Fred, seriously.
'No. '
'Well, I'm no expert, but they sure ain't roses.'
'You mean ... ‘
‘I do.'
There followed equal looks of disgust.
'The kids could get hold of that stuff - and then what would we do?'
'I know, I know - there should be laws, there really should.'
'Mindst you, it couldn't be worse than what Roger told me the other day.'
'What was that, then?'
The two moved closer, secretively, and then, in a whisper: 'Roger, he said he watched her get out of her car the other day, and when she opened her legs, he got the shock of his life. '
'What was that?'
A move closer - ear-licking closer.
'No knickers.'
The two exploded apart, recoiled in disgust. 'No ... knickers?'
'That's what I heard - so as to be ready for it anytime.'
'Oh dear, it really is a disgrace. How could she live with herself?'
'It's beyond me - it really is. And she's lowering the place in other way.'
'Oh, what's that?'
'Well, you know Phil from No 34.'
'Yes, that nice fella with the pretty wife and three kids.'
'Well, he's not so nice any more.'
'Why's that?'
Secretiveness again. A look of incredulity before the fact. A pointed finger to add emphasis. 'He's been in there.'
'No-o.'
'He has!'
'When?'
'The other day - I saw him; and he was in there an hour, he was. And all I can say is I hope he went straight for a test.'
'A test?'
'You know - for, for, for, what-sits.'
'Oh, oh, yes, I get you.'
'Cos she'll have it, you know.'
'Bound to, bound to, carrying on like that.'
'A disgrace.'
'It is. But tell me, have you told your wife anything about this - warned her, like?'
'Oh, heavens no. I can't do that. You know how they gossip.’
© Anthony North, 1993
NEW LOVE
Science is said to be the saviour of mankind. Through its practice we have come to know the world, banishing superstition and things supernatural for a system of materialist logic. Reason and understanding are the new by-words for civilisation. Yet could it be that we are fooling ourselves?
I have always lived by reason, laughing at the occasional anecdote of the supernatural I heard. The orators were demented, or simply mistaken, I was sure. But sure no more.
When my wife, Anna, died, the longing to believe in an afterlife overwhelmed me. The thought of her just ceasing to exist was too much to bear. Surely, I thought, there was more
- a continuance. Why else bother putting her in the world, only to be snuffed out before thirty? The universe, we are told, is cruel. But surely not that cruel?
I cremated my Anna and kept her in an urn, taking pride of place upon the shelf. I needed her near me. Even though she was only ash, I needed her close, to comfort, to succour in my times of need when depression forced its ugly mood into my head.
She was perfection, my Anna - the most beautiful, most lovely human being who ever walked the Earth. If she had a fault, it was her jealousy. She could hardly bear me to look at another woman, the act bringing out the only badness that could exist in her. But she loved me deeply, and I knew her anger was simply a representation of that love - and she was always forgiven.
Oh, how I missed my Anna!
The months of solitude passed when she was no more. Life, of a sort, continued. But it was an empty, soulless existence. The days were melancholy, the nights long and cold; the weekends, with no work to be done, a living hell. But for every void there is an eventual escape. And mine was Samantha.
It was eight months after Anna's death that Sam came on the scene. We had met at work at just the time that the melancholy was beginning to lift. Oh, it wasn't that I had forgotten Anna, or had stopped grieving for her. It's just that eventually a need to continue living rises out of the grief.
Before we first made love, I told Anna about Sam. Before she arrived at the flat, I spoke to Anna, hoping she understood I needed to continue my life. If nothing else, it made ME feel better - less of a cheat.
The passion was intense that night. Sam unlocked a long suppressed desire in me - a desire that came to the fore with every thrist into her womanhood, her shrieks of ecstasy confirming my rebirth into the world of the living.
I was happy that night, hardly noticing, later, the small amount of ash ingrained in the bedsheets after Sam had gone.
Of course, we knew we would see each other again. Three, sometimes four nights a week we went out - to dinner, to the cinema, to a party - and afterwards we made love. Soon, I hardly felt the need to speak to Anna. I still grieved - I really did - but life held happiness anew. And I suppose it was natural that after a couple of months I asked Sam to move in with me, not realising the significance of the change in my lifestyle.
But now I do. Now I believe in the afterlife, and people consider me the demented one.
Sam moved in. We rode on a tide of ecstasy throughout the night, cementing our future life together. But now I am grieved once more, never again to dare hope for happiness, imprisoned forever in depression. For the next morning my new love was dead, her lungs clogged up with ash.
© Anthony North, 1993
MUGGED
To say that Mrs Sleeman was subjected to the most tragic of horrors is an understatement. At seventy five years of age she was a typical, if active, pensioner. Widowed the past ten years, she had organised a relatively busy life for herself - bingo twice a week with the cabal of other ladies in the street; the weekly journey out with her daughter. She dearly missed her late husband, but she had the strength of mind to rise above gloom and sadness and always see the best in life.
Principal to this outlook was her total belief in indepen¬dence. Not for her the home help or intrusion by state busy¬bodies. Her philosophy was simple. Come the day that she couldn't look after herself, it would be time to meet her maker - end of story, and that was that. However, life WAS to change the day she came out of the post office with two weeks pension in her purse.
We can argue why the young man did it for ever. Some would say that he had been brutalised in life. In this particular young man's case the signs were obviously there. Consider the psychological trauma caused by his mother's refusal to give him Weetabix in the morning; and consider, too, his clothes. No designer labels here. No, this young man tried his best to make up for the poverty he suffered, but he simply wasn't a walking billboard like his peers. And that, without doubt, could be classed as abuse by his parent.
But whatever the reasons for his actions, at half past nine this particular morning, this particular young man ran up to this particular old lady, formed his hand into a fist, punched her once in the face and then twice in the stomach, placed his other hand in her bag and ran off with her purse.
Mrs Sleeman crumpled into a heap on the pavement. Immediately, people surrounded her, soothing her, checking she was alright and sympathising with her. But although Mrs Sleeman had the presence of mind to realise that the vast majority of humanity in her town were sympathetic and good, the event had an ominous effect upon her philosophy. For as she found herself deposited back in her house, she felt a sudden comfort from its security that she had never before known.
As the days dragged on this security became more omnipotent. Many times each day she would look out of her window and see the world. But whereas before it had been most definitely her world, it increasingly seemed to be alien - to be menacing. And as the days turned to weeks Mrs Sleeman cut herself off from that world. Shopping was done by a home help, and twice
a week the social worker would call to make sure she was alright. Oh, her cabal of friends continued to call, but rather than encourage her to go out, they sympathised and considered cutting themselves off from the world lest they, too, be mugged.
And so the effects of the mugging grew. Mrs Sleeman, no longer active and optimistic; her friends no longer jolly as they went off to bingo, but looking over their shoulders at every shadow and putting distance between themselves and every passing youth. For they were no longer just youths, but would ¬be attackers.
Of course, the young man was oblivious to all this. Immediately upon disposing of the purse he had gone out and bought a pair of designer jeans and a named T-shirt. Now he too could be a walking billboard and, due to the immense courage he had shown during the mugging, was a bit of a hero to his friends. However, one day, unbeknown to him, he and his friends walked past Mrs Sleeman's window just as she was looking out and hating the evil world outside.
No one can truly explain what went through her head as she saw this young man walk past with his friends. The attack had been locked in time and she had a perpetual memory of the event, including every element of the youth who attacked her. And this young man was that attacker, she knew. But whatever the thought processes, an energy rose within her and, almost without thinking, she found herself rushing to her door, opening it and going out into the world.
Hurrying after the youth, she first called him and then caught him up. His friends looked aghast as she spun him round, poked him in the eye, raised her knee to his groin and waited for him to crumple. Then Mrs Sleeman rifled his pockets and found the proceeds of his latest mugging. Delightedly placing it in her pocket, she totteringly raised her foot and kicked him in the face before heading for home to prepare for Bingo that night.
The effect on the young man was incredible. He had been shamed in front of his friends, and their laughter made him withdraw into himself over the coming weeks. And being so withdrawn, a complete change in attitude occurred and he mugged no more - indeed, he became a totally new man. As for Mrs Sleeman, after being told off by the police, she received an award for courage. And as for the youth who mugged her, his transformation was complete and he became a vicar.
© Anthony North, 1993
