Word Count Wednesday

Yes, it’s that time of the week again. How have you been getting on?

I had planned to do more to ‘Henry Goes to the Barbecue’, the second Henry Short Story, but I’ve been distracted by a new idea for a collection (the first of several, I’m hoping). Actually I’ve been distracted by other things (including Facebook Marketplace!) so have a mere 864 words written this past week (Wednesday to last night) but I didn’t start those until late yesterday afternoon so two day’s worth of the ‘300 words a day will get you 109,500 in a year’ so not bad. Will do better (I hope!) next week. 🙂

Do leave a comment below to share your progress, successes and otherwise, and of course anything else that’s happened to you, writing wise, over the past seven days.

For more information About Me as an Author, Mentor, Speaker and my Fiction, Non-fiction, and you can sign up to my Newsletter.

Sunday short short story: A Different Kind Of Speechless by Morgen Bailey

Posted every Sunday, the following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s shorter short story collection, FLASHES,  available in e-book from Morgen’s online store where you not only get the best price but can either instantly download the collection or purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

A Different Kind Of Speechless

As Tom tied the scarf round his wife’s neck, he wondered if he could ever tighten his grip, pull hard, squeeze the life out of her, but instead tied it tightly enough to last the evening, easy to loosen when they got back home.

He smiled weakly as she turned round, and she went to speak but no words came out.

“We’d better go,” Tom said, then followed her out through the open front door.

As Tom drove to the theatre he wanted to tell her about his day, share his mundane, but pretended to concentrate on the road instead, glancing at her occasionally only to see her steadfast gaze through the front windscreen.

He wanted his wife back, the woman whose shopping basket had overbalanced as he’d walked past, the woman who’d blushed as he’d helped her, while staring at her long black hair… a different kind of speechless.

Pulling into the kerb outside the theatre, he switched off the engine and put the blue card on to the dashboard, setting the timer and pushing it in place, into the fold of plastic joining the windscreen.

As Tom and Arabella entered the foyer, they waited as a man in front of them collected his ticket. Expecting the man to walk into the theatre, Tom pushed the wheelchair forward as the man moved but then halted as he turned round. It was then that Tom recognised him, his hair a little greyer, but there was no mistaking the dark eyes. The eyes full of sorrow as they’d faced each other in court when Tom had listened to Jack Creaton recount how he’d hit the Italian woman crossing the road as she went to collect the cake she’d ordered for her tenth wedding anniversary.

Jack’s shoulders slumped as he looked at Tom, but said nothing.

Tom was debating whether to speak when the woman in the ticket office called ‘next’.

Jack looked at Arabella, bowed his head, coughed and left the theatre.

###

Word Count Wednesday

Yes, it’s that time of the week again. How have you been getting on?

I have another zero this week but mostly due to deadlines (meaning I work worked over the weekend) but hopeful of something by next Wednesday!

Do leave a comment below to share your progress, successes and otherwise, and of course anything else that’s happened to you, writing wise, over the past seven days.

For more information About Me as an Author, Mentor, Speaker and my Fiction, Non-fiction, and you can sign up to my Newsletter.

Sunday short short story: Thistle by Morgen Bailey

Posted every Sunday, the following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s shorter short story collection, FLASHES,  available in e-book from Morgen’s online store where you not only get the best price but can either instantly download the collection or purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

Thistle

“Thistle.”

“Sorry, madam?”

“Yes, young man. I’m after a thistle, the bigger the better.”

“I’m sorry we don’t-”

“Then I want something with thorns. Roses.”

“Certainly madam, we have a wide range of-”

“No, she’s Scottish. She’d get the joke more with thistles.”

“How about-”

“No. It’s got to be thistle… oh alright, anything else Scottish?”

“I’m sorry, madam. I’m not really up on my Scottish varieties but I could get you Tommy. He’s from Scotland, he might know.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just have a wander and see what you’ve got.”

*

“Excuse me, young man.”

“Hello again, madam. Did you find something to your liking?”

“No. Your haberdashery department is rubbish.”

“Haber…? I’m sorry. I thought you were looking for a plant.”

“I am. Thistle. You have roses, like you said, and heather, but they’re only sew on. I don’t have time for sewing. The dance is tonight.”

“Dance?”

“Line dancing. Every other Thursday night, and it was lovely before Aileen joined, and now she’s hogging all the men. It’s not fair.”

“I don’t quite understand why you want-”

“The blouse she was wearing, had lovely tulips on it.”

“Then I have just the thing for you, madam.”

“You have?”

“Right by the tills. Never sure why it’s there but there it is. A cactus transfer. £1.99. Iron on. Job done.”

###

Word Count Wednesday

Yes, it’s that time of the week again. How have you been getting on?

After a quiet six days (work work and overdue blitz of my office), I spent yesterday morning on the second Henry Short Story and wrote 1,829 words before getting back to work work (editing for my publisher). My latest deadline is next Monday but I hope to finish on Friday/Saturday so I can spend Sunday to hopefully finish this latest Henry.

Do leave a comment below to share your progress, successes and otherwise, and of course anything else that’s happened to you, writing wise, over the past seven days.

For more information About Me as an Author, Mentor, Speaker and my Fiction, Non-fiction, and you can sign up to my Newsletter. To those of you who have signed up to the latter, you may have noticed that there’s not been an issue for a couple of months. Sorry about that but Caroline and I have been busy behind the scenes and will have the next one to you by the end of September.

Sunday short short story: Thud On The Floor by Morgen Bailey

Posted every Sunday, the following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s shorter short story collection, FLASHES,  available in e-book from Morgen’s online store where you not only get the best price but can either instantly download the collection or purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

Thud On The Floor

“Lifting up the flap, I knew there was no way I was going to get the newspaper through.”

“So what did you do?”

“I took the middle section out.”

“Of the letterbox?”

“What? No, don’t be silly. The newspaper. Wednesday’s property day. Most people throw that bit away anyway. I was tempted but they pay for the whole thing, don’t they, although it would make my life easier. Monday’s my favourite, thinnest of the week. Not much sport on in the winter, so nothing to report.”

“So you took the paper apart and posted both bits through.”

“I tried but made the mistake of putting the property bit through first and it got stuck. Stupid letterboxes on these new houses, they’re so hard they rip the paper to shreds, so I have to be extra careful. It takes ages round the estate but Mr Jeffrey swapped my route with Billy-”

“So you’d put the property section through. What happened then?”

“I tried to, like I said, but it got stuck. Wasn’t sure whether to push or pull.”

“And…”

“I pushed. Didn’t want it back, did I? Went through eventually and didn’t half make a thud on the floor. Most people have mats so you don’t notice but I noticed that thud.”

“And you looked through the letterbox.”

“Yeah. Don’t know why now but something caught my eye, I suppose.”

“Describe what you saw.”

“A body.”

“Mrs Thompson.”

“Yeah, only I didn’t know that’s who she was. I only have numbers on them, not names.”

“And where was she lying?”

“There.”

“By the foot of the stairs.”

“Away a bit, sort of between the stairs and the radiator. All twisted like, like she’d fallen down the stairs but…”

“Go on.”

“But it didn’t look natural. Too much blood. You break things, bones, when you fall down the stairs, you don’t bleed.”

“You know a lot about-”

“CSI. I watch them all, but don’t tell mum will you or she’ll go mental.”

###

Word Count Wednesday

Yes, it’s that time of the week again. How have you been getting on?

I’ve been busy with work work and blitzing my office (much needed) so have a zero word count. I hope to do some writing this coming weekend though. The zero word count is okay as I have three deadlines next week after which I have a week off until the next books come in. Bliss. 🙂

Do leave a comment below to share your progress, successes and otherwise, and of course anything else that’s happened to you, writing-wise, over the past seven days.

For more information About Me as an Author, Mentor, Speaker and my Fiction, Non-fiction, and you can sign up to my Newsletter.

Sunday short short story: A Figure To Die For by Morgen Bailey

Posted every Sunday, the following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s shorter short story collection, FLASHES,  available in e-book from Morgen’s online store where you not only get the best price but can either instantly download the collection or purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

A Figure To Die For

“In or out?”

“Eh?”

“Are you coming in or going out?”

“Neither.”

“Then why are you standing there?”

“’cause I’m waiting for someone. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I was only trying to be friendly. Holding the door open.”

“You needn’t have bothered.”

“I can see that now.”

“And…?”

I was just in the mood today for an argument, and it didn’t really matter how far I went or how near to my face his was, I wasn’t going to be wrong. I didn’t want to use any violence, and I didn’t think it would come to that, but I wasn’t going to take any abuse from a thug like him. Shaved head or otherwise.

He thrust his hands into his pockets. They didn’t look deep enough to hold anything dangerous.

I was on my way to a friend’s book launch so didn’t really have much time to spare but didn’t want to leave. But he was ignoring me and looking in the opposite direction. I followed his gaze and couldn’t believe who he was waiting for; a girl slightly older than him with an award-winning smile and a figure to die for.

###

Word Count Wednesday

Yes, it’s that time of the week again. How have you been getting on?

I’ve been away and then catching up so a zero word count this week. Next up is ‘Henry Goes to the BBQ’, the second in the Henry Short Stories series. Then back to two psychological standalones which I plan to submit to a publisher. It’ll be a few weeks off yet but I’ll let you know how I get on.

Do leave a comment below to share your progress, successes and otherwise, and of course anything else that’s happened to you, writing wise, over the past seven days.

For more information About Me as an Author, Mentor, Speaker and my Fiction, Non-fiction, and you can sign up to my Newsletter.

Sunday short short story: Feeling Stupid by Morgen Bailey

Posted every Sunday, the following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s shorter short story collection, FLASHES,  available in e-book from Morgen’s online store where you not only get the best price but can either instantly download the collection or purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

Feeling Stupid

“You’re as white as a sheet,” Mark says.

You do feel a little pale, devoid of energy. “I do feel a little… well, beat,” you reply.

“Beaten.”

“Oh yes,” you reply, feeling stupid.

“Your skin’s all…” he continues. “How do I put this nicely? Doughy.”

He’s made his point, you think, and wonder whether he’s hinting at you to go home. But he’s the boss, he could just say so. Tell you to your white doughy face.

“There’s something on your top,” you say, hoping to feel better by pointing out one of his flaws. You feel this to be the most innocent of a very long list.

He looks down at the speck and blushes, a dark contrast to your pale hue. “I’m trying a new shampoo,” he says and you realise now what the white speck is.

“Well, your hair looks very healthy for it,” you lie and want the ground to open and for your size 8s to take you down into the void.

You see a vein pop out on his neck and realise that it wasn’t blushing that was making his face go red. “Are you alright?” you ask but before he can reply he slumps to the floor.

Scraping your chair back, you crouch down beside him and put a hand above his mouth, palm down, to check for breathing. You’re relieved when your palm feels warm.

Having established that he’s conscious, you get up (even in his condition you don’t feel well enough to leap) and phone for an ambulance. Your office is near the hospital so it doesn’t take long.

By the time it arrives he’s sitting up and talking but he’s got a nasty rash on his neck.

“Hello!” the blonde paramedic beams, a little too jovial for your liking but apart from the rash, Mark doesn’t look particularly ill. “What seems to be the matter?”

If I knew that, you start to think, but then tell yourself off for being so mean.

“Oh dear,” the paramedic continues, “nasty rash you have there.”

Mark smiles at her, looking somewhat embarrassed.

“New shampoo?” she asks.

He nods.

You watch in silence as the couple gaze into each other’s eyes. If you didn’t feel queasy before then, you certainly do now.

###