I know how you feel. I have something like maybe 50 completed short stories with another 20 or so in the pipeline, includling what I call long short stories - not long enough to be novels but way too long to really qualify as short stories. I post them on various forums but it’s a waste of time; nobody really reads them. Self-publishing is just pointless, and even writing contests all want to charge you a fee for entering. I don’t have that sort of disposable income. So I just write my stories and I know when I’m happy with them and when I’m not. I’d love to read the one you got published though. What do you, or did you write normally? My own stories tend towards horror, science fiction, fantasy and humour mostly.
1997 Wish Pedlars Charity Cycle Ride. (I love my car)
The build up
On a hot Sunday afternoon during the summer of 1997 we went to visit the home of some friends for a barbecue. One of them is quite a keen cyclist and has proved his worth by cycling to a town in the middle of France. After the wine had been splashed about a bit he got me to agree to a charity bike ride to the coast. A distance of fifty-four miles (FIFTY-FOUR MILES? I must be mad!!!).
Shortly after agreeing to put my life at risk by cycling all that way I asked my brother and co-cyclist if he would like to accompany me. His answer amounted to a flat refusal. However, as time went by he changed his mind. He decided he would undergo the ride providing not a drop of rain was forecast for the day. Then he got an offer of some serious money from a sponsor. This meant he was obliged to go the distance come rain or shine. No getting out of it for him now.
A little later my son volunteered for the trial by bike. He’s not a keen cyclist but he is young and fit. There was no doubt that he was up to the task. I was therefore surprised that he balked at the suggestion of a leisurely ride to the starting point. It was probably about 5 miles away. He didn’t quite tell me to "---- off "! out of respect for my age and position but the words were hovering on his lips. He reckoned that fifty-four miles was enough for anyone without adding insult to injury by riding any further than necessary. He arranged transport to get us, bikes and all, to the start line.
On your marks!
So there we were on September 14th facing a cycle ride of a formidable distance. Why did I ever say I would do it! Whatever the reason there was no turning back now. We all had sponsor money riding on it and there was no way we were going to let either the charity or our self-esteem down.
Get set!
There were literally hundreds of cyclists there ranging from the ‘Tour de France’ types, to those who just ride around for a bit fun. Many cyclists arrived in teams and they were all decked out in colourful matching attire. One team was made up of children accompanied by a number adult minders. Some children were so small it seemed that they would have no chance of completing the trip. At the other end of the age scale there were people like us and even older, who like to prove that muscles and the old ticker are still up to it. There were motor bike and ambulance patrols present. Presumably their purpose was to sweep up those who keeled over. The fact that the organisers thought these necessary was rather worrying.
Go! (for a while anyway).
At eight fifteen a.m. on a thankfully bright but chilly Sunday morning the hooter sounded and I gave the first of many pushes on the pedals. At about the ten mile mark things were running smoothly when I heard a shout from behind. My brother had got a puncture and was feeling a bit let down. It’s his practice to take the valve right out of the tyre when repairing a puncture instead of just pushing the valve down to let the remaining air out. He passed the valve to me for safe keeping (oh dear). I placed it on top of my saddle bag and when I looked around there it was, GONE! (now we’re in ‘wheel’ trouble). Rummaging through the surrounding undergrowth failed to find the item.
Prudently, we carry spare inner tubes and were able to pinch a valve from one of those. Next time he gets a puncture he will probably still take the valve out of the inner tube, unless I’m there that is. Then he might not risk it and let the air out with a screwdriver or twig instead. He felt bad about holding us up. I felt bad about losing his valve. However, thirty-five minutes later we were on our way again. It wasn’t a race after all.
The ride progresses.
The half way point was at The ‘Selbourne Arms’ which, as might be expected, is at Selbourne, Hampshire. Our small team rode in together. It was here that we lost my son in amongst all the other cyclists. He went off to find a shop whilst brother and I went to find a quiet spot behind the pub. When my son came back he thought we’d gone so he continued without us. My brother lost his hat at the pub bringing his misfortunes so far to: a flat tyre, a lost valve (I’m trying to forget about the lost valve) and a lost hat. There’s an encounter with a rather large and very mean dog to come yet.
The hills up to this point were only the nursery slopes compared to what was to come. The first obstacle on the second leg of the journey was a one-in-seven ‘mountain’ in the upwards direction. A quick glance towards the top was so demoralising that we immediately dismounted and started to walk.
This was the first of many such hills as we crossed the South Downs. There definitely seems more ‘ups’ than ‘downs’ so perhaps a rename is in order here. No matter how steep the hills were there was always someone who could ride them. Well, who cares anyway (me).
Bad dog!
At the top of one particular hill I stopped for a drink whilst my brother, who was back just below the brow, had paused to remove a vest from under his ‘T’ shirt. I could hear a dog barking. It was the sort of bark that said “I am a big dog and I’m going to take a chunk out of you if I get the chance”. There was a hedge which, fortunately, separated me from it. Two other cyclists rode by and proceeded down the hill. The Hound of the Baskervilles tore out of a gate and went in hot pursuit of the nearest ankle. There was nothing wrong with that dog’s agility and fitness. It kept after them for ages.
I shouted a warning about the dog which was now out of sight. Perhaps laying in wait? We chose our moment and set off speedily, legs a-blur, down the hill. The dog must have thought that the previous two cyclists were a ‘one-off’ and he gave us no trouble. However, once past the danger of being eaten, my brother realised that he’d left his sun glasses behind and he had to go back up the hill to retrieve them. He was on his own for that one I’m afraid! I rode on thinking he would catch up. He did, and a lot quicker than one would have thought possible.
It turned out that the dog had wised up to the fact that there were more cyclists to chase. It had picked on my brother for a bit more sport. He was now on his way back down the hill complete with sun glasses. If it wasn’t in it for the sport and exercise why did it let him go back up the hill without leaping out? I suppose the dog would find no fun in that. The dog blocked his path and my brother had to run the gauntlet with the dog’s hot breath only inches from his ankle. He said that he’d managed to ride at nearly 30 m.p.h for a couple of hundred yards before the dog gave up the chase. Probably, like Mutley, with a wheezy laugh.
Keep going!.
After many strenuous and hilly miles I got my ‘second wind’ about fifteen miles from the goal. I overtook quite a few cyclists who I would have said were far fitter than me. Perhaps they had just decided to take it easy and weren’t really knackered at all. Also at about this stage a familiar face appeared. It was my good friend and drinking partner of many years standing (and staggering). He had come along with his wife, who puts up with our occasional bouts of standing and staggering, to take some pictures of yours truly in action. One action photo was taken out of the car window as they drove past me. I saw them a little later at an on route shopping precinct and again at the finishing line. That damned Paparazzi gets everywhere.
A view of the south coast.
At the final stages of the journey there’s the long steep climb up Purbrook Hill. Most cyclists walked it. One ‘Tour de France’ type rode up it at the same speed as I go on the flat. There’s always one show-off isn’t there? From the brow of the hill there was a superb view of Portsmouth and, of course, the sea. “Must be nearly there” I thought. Ha! no such luck!
Ahead was an exhilarating long downhill run into the town. The trip from there to the finish line seemed interminable. The route went through about three miles of heavy traffic. I tagged onto a row of other riders who were adept at weaving in and out of cars with a ‘devil may care’ attitude. I stuck to them like glue. I even overtook them in the end because they seemed to get slower and slower. You cant help being a bit competitive.
Almost there.
One final push against the wind along Southsea Beach Road. A couple of the riders I’d just overtaken came back at me and went ahead. Maybe they didn’t like that little sneer I gave when overtaking them. The rules of one-upmanship on a bike are the same as that of a car. Pretend they’re not there and certainly don’t smile at the other chap. One turned to look at me. “Are we nearly there?” I asked him sounding like a child on a long car journey. He pointed to a glass pyramid shaped roof just ahead and told me that was the place. “Thank God for that” I muttered. Not said causally, I really was grateful to have come to journey’s end.
Fame at last.
All riders were cheered and applauded as the line was crossed and I felt proud of the achievement. I thought about going round in a circle and crossing the line again for another accolade. How many times could I get away with it before people twigged it was just the same person glory hunting? I was pleased to see my wife there for two reasons. Firstly, I am always pleased to see her (what a creep!). Secondly, she had driven the car to Southsea and was our means of getting a lift home (now that’s nearer the truth!). She was accompanied by some of our friends who had taken the trouble to come along to form the welcoming party.
All over.
My son had arrived shortly before me. He had lost the route at some point and had trouble finding it again. We should have made arrangements back at the Selbourne Arms to all leave together. My brother arrived about ten minutes later. Unfortunately he had missed a turning by riding straight on when he should have turned left. He did this even though there was an official issuing directions at this point. That’s head down concentrated effort for you. I wonder what the official thought.
The children’s team got a deserved extra special applause as they rode in. Some people crossing the line seemed unaffected by the ordeal whilst others seemed near to collapse. I watched one girl fall crying into her waiting mans arms. I thought I might try the thing same with my wife but she would probably only have told me to shove off. I think there must have been some riders who never got there at all. When we were driving home we saw lots that were still pedalling towards the coast.
Looking back it was good experience and I will probably be a candidate for the ride next year. I have possibly bored several people by talking about the event a little too much. I bet if they’d made the ride, they would be the same.
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Excellent. Really enjoyed that. You have a great descriptive turn of phrase, and I like your sense of humour. I wonder if the dog eventually decided to cross the line himself, to see what all the fuss was about?
I ‘try’ writing sci fi fantasy. I just reread my published story (2012) (paper copy) & found a few lines I’d change, but oh well. 
2,005 words. I know of no way to post it to you. I don’t think it’s still shown on WritingTomorrow.
Can you not post it here?
I have a problem with brevity, but occasionally I manage it. Here’s a short (very short) one.
Lick of Paint
Donaldson sighed, watching the enraged couple leave. How was he to explain this to his boss? He had assured Mr. Foster he was ready for the move up, and his promotion hinged on selling this damn house that had been on the market for six years!
A fixer-upper, but in a really nice area, and a steal at this price.
Then that fifteenth century family had appeared.
He swore. What moron thought to build a house on a bloody time rift?
He had tried, but it was no use.
Nobody wanted a time share these days.
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My printer cannot send the paper copy of my story from it to computer from which I could send it here. I type with the middle finger of my steadier right hand and typing it out here would take forever.
Okay sorry. Would it work if you did ctrl A to highlight all the text, then ctril c to copy it and then cirl V to paste it here as a block? I wasn’t aware you had difficulty typing, forgive me. You could also take a picture of the pages and upload them, but sure if it’s that difficult I wouldn’t worry about it.
Have you considered using a speech-to-text programme for writing, as a matter of interest?
I once used the speech-to-text. One example: The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain printed out ( and I did pronounce each word as best I could): something like The train in stain falls sanely on the plane. lol I’ll ask my daughter to take a picture of each page and upload them, when she has time. The story is mostly silly comments by the 3 characters, no complicated actions.
Oh I know what you mean! I used Dragon Naturally Speaking for a few months, and every single paragraph I had to go back and make so many corrections it was just quicker in the end to type it. Plus I felt like a knob saying the stuff out loud and slowly and clearly - “Sir Ge-no-bar looked a-round him care-ful-ly, fear-ing the app-roach of the drag-on”, which still ended up as “Sir Jenny Bar lucked a round hum car full, searing the cockrock of the rag on.” Bloody useless thing! I guess you have to work with if for a long time before it can get used to your inflections and all that, but even so, character names, place names all presented it difficulties, so it just was not worth it.
lol. I don’t always pronounce words with the same inflections as I speak, so the Dragon Naturally Speaking ended up useless. Since I live alone, and in a 2 story apartment house, each time I spoke into it I thought that if the upstairs neighbors hear me they will probably think I’m talking to myself. Coo, coo. lol
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Here’s another short one, horror this time…
Homeward, or, Where’s Ripley When You Need Her?
Beating hard against the wind, the ship’s sails filled as the bark tacked to port. The storm screamed its fury at the vessel, the roiling sea doing its best to swamp the decks. Huge frothy white breakers came surging up over the sides, like the grasping, questing hands of some enormous sea beast beneath. The sky was hard and dark, the stars glittering like baleful staring eyes as the ship made its way nor-by-nor’west, the island dwindling to the size of a small rock in the distance. The remaining crew members shivered, and not only from the lashing rain which seemed to have decided that if the ship could not be drowned from below then it would be drowned from above. Carsten jerked a thumb back in the direction of the rapidly-receding atoll.
“Fucking dusky maidens, my arse!” he grumped to Deveraux, who was trying to splice the mainbrace, or some damn thing. “An island Paradise, that’s what he promised us! And what did we get?”
The Frenchman ignored him. The question did not require an answer; they all knew what they had got. Those that had survived, that was. But he had his own problems, small and insignificant as they seemed now.
Deveraux had not the first idea how to be a seaman, much less splice a mainbrace, whatever that was. He had sneaked aboard the ship when it docked at Marseilles. After what they had all faced, he now wondered if he might have been better throwing himself on the tender mercies of Jacques Dupont. The man wasn’t known as “The Guillotine” for nothing, of course, and he took a very dim view of those who could not pay, but at least it would have been quick.
It certainly had not been quick for those they had been forced to leave behind.
O’Donnell was, as usual, drunk in the hold, and of no use to anyone, but he was alive. A burden, yes, and one they could barely afford as they fled from that horror, but there was no way Captain Harrison was going to have left him back… he shuddered, a cold hand running down his spine … there.
Nobody deserved that.
Of course, Harrison wasn’t the captain, but the acting captain. The last he had seen of Captain Grayson, the man had been standing on the shore like some titan, holding them off as they approached like a black cloud. He had one of those new flintlocks, take down a maneater at fifty paces. But these maneaters were not to be stopped. The bullets seemed to have no effect on them as they pressed forward.
Mentally, he doffed his hat, though he wore none. Captains traditionally go down with their ships. Grayson had gone down, but not with his ship. The last glimpse Deveraux had had of him was forever now seared into his memory, the man surrounded by a black cloud of bodies, shots, and a scream that would haunt him to his dying days.
But the captain had bought their escape with his life, and the jolly boat was halfway to the ship before the creatures turned towards them. Thank the good Lord in Heaven, he thought, that they seemed afraid of the water and could not pursue them.
He thought of the men left behind. All dead now, of course.
Or at least, he fervently hoped so.
His thoughts returned to O’Donnell. The man had a good excuse to be off his face, though in fairness he seldom needed one. But this time he did. They all did. Matter of fact, Deveraux thought, it was a wonder they weren’t all nine sheets to the wind after what they had gone through.
As soon as they reached port, he intended to remedy that situation. Alchohol would not block out the horrible things he had seen back there on that cursed island – nothing would: he would most likely live with those memories for the rest of his days. They would come screaming out of his dreams and reach for him in the night, and he, a man who did not scare easy and who had many enemies, though none of them alive, would cry like a newborn.
No, drink would not take away the events of the past three days. But it would help dull the horror.
Maybe.
He could never have believed such things existed.
Nobody could.
Down in the hold, O’Donnell could.
When they had shoved him down into the darkness to sober up, his head had felt like it was splitting.
That was no longer a metaphor.
The Irishman was no longer drunk, nor would he ever be.
But something was.
His cries, never audible above the shriek of the wind and the groaning of the ship’s timbers anyway, went unheard, and now the only sound was a horrible crunching, slurping, sucking.
Red eyes gleamed malevolenty in the darkness as the ship lurched towards home.
The snap of a human bone. Gnawing sounds.
Soon, they would all believe.
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I wrote this years back in the days of using cheques to pay for purchases. Then came the introduction of the ‘cheque guarantee card’ that shops required so that cheques didn’t bounce. The following is about this card…
Cheque card
Dear Sir,
I appear to have cut in half the new cheque card that you sent me. Having received and signed the new card, I went and got the old one to destroy it like you’re supposed to. I picked up the scissors and was about to perform this act. Just at that moment the kettle, which I had earlier put on to make a cup of tea, boiled. If I had put the scissors down at this point then writing to you would not have been necessary. Sadly I didn’t and I feel that I must explain how this led to the destruction of the new card.
As I turned around to see to the kettle, the scissor blades caught the edge of the sugar bowl knocking it off the kitchen worktop. It was a good quality lead crystal bowl and indeed, we had often marvelled at its size to weight ratio. Being first thing in the morning, my feet were bare and the left one got badly hurt when the bowl, with its contents, landed on it.
As a knee jerk reaction (literally), I quickly pulled my foot up in order rub it and hopefully relieve the pain. Not thinking about the scissors still being clutched in my hand, I stabbed myself deeply in the thigh with some considerable force due to my leg’s upward momentum.
I hopped around on my other leg trying to stem the flow of blood, rub my foot and keep my balance. Unfortunately I was unable to do this for long because I hopped on the edge of the sugar bowl. It flipped it over in a sort of backwards ‘tiddlywinks’ motion sending sugar lumps flying everywhere. The heavy bowl came down right on top of my foot just where the bones are close to the surface. I was soon dancing on the spot trying to take the weight off both feet at the same time.
My wife, who can only walk with the aid of crutches, came to see what all the fuss was about. Realising my plight she tried to steady me up. I didn’t have great presence of mind by this time and I rather stupidly grasped at one of her crutches. It came away easily from under her because the end of it was standing in some of my blood, which by now had made the floor a little slippery in places.
We both fell. I initially landed hard in a sitting position right on top of the upturned sugar bowl. The pain was indescribable. I only had my dressing gown on and it had flown up during the fall. It was only later that I discovered that, by sheer ill fortune, a sugar lump was delicately balanced on the bowl’s upturned base. To avoid being coarse I will not describe precisely what had happened. Suffice it to say that the sugar lump would never see a teacup.
My wife came down on top of me pushing me flat and knocking the breath out of me. She somehow pole vaulted on her other crutch at the same time which accelerated her into the cooker door head first. The bulk of her body finally came to rest on my face. Then I was unable to breathe anyway, so it didn’t matter too much about being winded. She was powerless to get off me being somewhat in shock and dazed by the head injury she had sustained.
It was only with supreme effort just as consciousness was starting to fade that I managed to push her off my face. A few minutes later we argued which of us was best placed to go and call for an ambulance. I eventually lost and dragged myself to the telephone to call for help.
The doctors did a wonderful job of patching us up. The removal of the sugar lump was perhaps the most painful and certainly the most embarrassing part of the whole sorry episode for me. How the doctors and nurses could find it so damned funny I just can’t understand. It must have made medical history because they kept phoning other departments in the hospital suggesting that they should come over and have a look. I can only hope it stays out of our local paper as fame on account of this would be undesirable. I hate to think what the headline might read.
The ambulance finally delivered me back home in the early evening but they decided that my wife ought to stay in for a period of observation. She may be allowed home tomorrow providing she can face it. I hobbled into the kitchen to make the pot of tea that I didn’t get earlier. I carefully limped around the debris and blood that was all over the floor. I idly wondered what could be done about the deep dent in the cooker door that had been put there by my wife’s head. It was then that I noticed the two cheque cards sitting on the work-top. I wiped the scissors clean and, what with the cards being identical in appearance and me not having my glasses on, I went and cut the wrong one in half. After all the aforementioned grief you can perhaps imagine the sick feeling this gave me.
I hope this letter gives you a reasonable enough explanation as to why I need another card. My wife has offered, no insisted, that she will undertake the destruction of the old cards in future. I asked our neighbour to come in and throw the now hated sugar bowl and scissors in the dustbin because the pain wouldn’t allow me to walk far enough to do it myself.
I hope you will agree that we have suffered enough for my error. I would be grateful for your prompt action in sending yet another card as the old one only has a few days left before it expires,
Yours faithfully,
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Humourous. 
CREEPY scary for sure.
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Thanks. Yes it tends to use horror in a more “what do YOU think happened?” way than throwing gore and blood in your face. Always better, I feel, though I have written stories that do the literal horror thing. I do feel something that’s hinted at and leaves you to make up your own mind is scarier than laying it all out in front of the reader. Example of the latter:
The thing that stood before her was surely not human, at least, not in any way that mattered any more. Blood, brains and gore leaked out of the shattered skull, yet eyes from which life should have long fled stared at her with malevolent purpose…
Example of the former:
Moving quietly, carefully, she reached the top of the stairs and squinted into the darkness. What she saw made her catch her breath, take one step back in horror. She realised the discarded rollerskate was there only as she stepped on it and, arms flailing for purchase, pitched forward into the dark, down into the waiting arms of the spectre at the bottom of the stairs.
It is an example, however, also, of how for me, my stories can always be improved. I realise now that Carsten, having gone through such an ordeal, would not be grumping. It’s the wrong word, too bland. Maybe grunted or grated, or even shivered might be better. Oh well.
I once read that after having written your story, poem, novel, put it away for a week or so, then go back and read it over. Do not sent it off before then. That’s when you’re likely to find there are parts that need improving. I’ve made that mistake–sent off writings before setting them aside for a while, then read over. I have posted (mostly humorous) story poems about experiences with having the neurological disorder Essential Tremor that I’m now embarrassed about. I can’t get to them on the E T forum to revise. An Aussie woman acquaintance & man mailed a plaque to me praising my poetry.
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By the way, I try to use as few words as possible to keep my story going more quickly, which can make it tougher to come up with an exact descriptive word for what’s going on.
I’m the very opposite. Never shut up, never use one word where 100 will do. I tend to expand my narrative, often too much, but I really enjoy writing and it’s hard to cut stuff out, though I often do. I learned a certain amount of discipline through forums where you’re challenged to write a story on a topic in less than 70, 100 or 1000 words. You really get to see what’s extraneous, and how to say things in other ways that use less words. Another example of one of those would be this one, where we were given certain words (five, I think) to use in the story, still keeping it down to 100 words. I struggled with the last word, champion, till I came up with this.
If the hat fits…
(94 words)
Elsie has never been inside the tiny shop; it’s well hidden, and for good reason.
She enters, old bones creaking.
Eventually the shopkeeper looks up.
“Help you, grandma?” Not a trace of Yorkshire in his accent.
“I’m after a… special hat?”
Shopkeeper nods.
“Expensive,” he warns her. “You can pay?”
She nods. “My life savings.”
She takes the hat, puts it on.
Dizzy. Disoriented. Someone reaches out to steady her.
“All right, lass?”
Elsie looks down at her nineteen-year old body.
“Oh aye, lad,” she smiles, “I’m champion, me.”
Elsie entered the tiny, strange hidden shop.
Bones, old, creaking.
The shopkeeper craftily looks up.
“Help you, grandma?” he asks, lacking Yorkshire accent.
“I’m after a… special hat?”
Shopkeeper nods.
“Expensive,” he warns. “You can pay?”
She nods. “Life savings.”
She puts on the hat.
Becomes dizzy. Disoriented. He steadys her.
“All right, lass?”
Elsie looks down at her nineteen-year old body.
“Aye, lad,” she smiles, “I’m champion! See?”
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