THE LONG DARK NIGHTS by Carolina de la Cruz

It was well past harvest time and autumn had descended upon the land with her glorious colours of red, yellow, orange and gold, this would be the last ceremony of the year as winter time was considered too cold and dangerous for a child to spend three nights out in the forest alone. This year of course there was the added danger of the occupation by Rome and her soldiers, but apart from the small fort at Rigodunum, there had been little evidence of the great Roman Army. The fort which had been originally wooden had been replaced by the current stone building and there were only about 80 soldiers billeted there with their centurion in charge. The Centurion had moved his household which contained not only his wife and children, but his servants and slaves too. Some of the local trades’ people traded with the camp and of course the camp attracted its usual camp followers, the willing and the coerced.

The lands of the Brigante were wild and mountainous and had so far discouraged a full scale attack by a large force and the Brigantian Queen Cartimandua favoured compliance with Rome whilst her husband, Venutius of the Carvetti did not, both sides knew that more war was to come, it was just a question of time.

THE HOLLINWOOD DRAGON by Amanda Carr

Knowing better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ann un-wobbled her jellied legs and cowered behind Johnny. Mr. Middleton was red in the face—whether from exertion or anger, Johnny couldn't tell, but he spoke in a level and controlled manner when he looked Johnny square in the eye and said, "You better make sure she starts to know better. She's lucky to be alive." He gestured toward the smouldering bonfire. It spat out a riot of orange sparks with all the ambition of a would-be volcano.

DAWNING by Peggy Bottomley

Once upon a time, just before dawn on a cold October day, a woman walked her dog towards the ruined valley, the sole remnant of the faery land of her childhood. Her mood was as grey as the light for her children now stepped independently into the world, her workplace had no use for her, her love had gone, and her spirit ached from the wound.

 She took the uneven rubble path, past the disembowelled dustbins spilling their sordid contents, past the carcases of supermarket trolleys, past the skeletons of forgotten buildings, to the turn in the path that showed her the extent of the council-funded massacre of her dream world. She stepped carefully to avoid the blocks of concrete half hidden by the rank grass, like fractured tombstones, ready to trip the unwary. The pewter coloured puddles in the ruts scowled at the lowering sky.

FRIENDSHIP EXPOSED by Lesley Truchet

The gate opened with a spine-chilling creak. Behind it stood a squat, obese person dressed in dirty, food-stained clothes. His pale sweaty face was a very unhealthy colour, and the stringy remnants of his long greasy grey hair hung to his shoulders either side of his baldhead. He coldly observed us with jaundiced eyes. The entrance hall exuded a disagreeable odour of cat, cooked cabbage and God knows what else.

‘Er,’ I began uncertainly, revolted by his appearance, ‘Do you have rooms available?’

‘£50 each. No breakfast,’ he informed us in a cold tone that effectively discouraged any negotiation.

‘Could we see the rooms please?’

Without uttering a word, he showed us two adjacent double rooms, my house-proud mother would have collapsed at the sight of them.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’ I demanded.

By way of reply he pointed to a door at the end of the corridor and went back downstairs, leaving us to follow.

‘Just tonight!’ I proffered my credit card. Judging by his expression, it was about as acceptable as a bar of soap.

‘Cheque?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Cash. In advance.’

MILLGATE MEMORIES by Carol Marie Higgins

Walking down Millgate she pressed the latch on the old green back gate which took her into a back yard shared by three cottages. As was the norm in this two up two down area all three shared one tippler toilet complete with cleaning rota. Each cottage did have its own coal place to feed the open fires. The opposite end from the back gate led into a large reclaimed timber yard, owned for a time by Jane’s grandparents Eric and Alice Black. The cottage fronts came onto Hollins Road looking down towards the Hollinwood area. Jane lived in the middle of the cottages and next door to her lived Amy and James Jones with their daughter Freda. Theirs was the last cottage before the wood yard. James owned the local barber’s shop and kept a smallholding at the back of the premises, just lower down than the timber yard.

SATURDAY WITH UNCLE by Marjory Travis

What did I do in this grimy, masculine paradise? To start with I tidied and cleaned the office and mopped the floor both there and, sometimes, in the shop. I brewed up pots of strong, sweet tea for the two of us. I learned to answer the phone correctly. I sometimes served in the shop.

I sold bundles of oily wood and firelighters, Tilley lamps and the paraffin to go in them, carefully pumped up and measured by the quarter pint into bottles. That was not yet illegal. There were pencils, nails, screws, tools, paint, dishes, pans, tiles, dusters and quantities of small necessities. As instructed I kept meticulous records so that when mum came in she could ‘do the books’.

And I learned. I was fascinated by the antique typewriter and started to teach myself to type on it. Also there was the workshop full of tools. I was taught how to use all of them, the saws and hammers, chisels, screwdrivers, planes and the axes. In slack periods I’d chop up scrap wood and make it into wired bundles and set it to soak up paraffin. This was the preferred firelighter in those days before the Clean Air Act.

SNOW by Maggie Nicholson

Snow! A thrill of excitement coursed through her. Snow; the first snow of the winter and with it the promise of snowballs, snowmen, sledging. A kaleidoscope of ideas and plans flashed through her head. She ran downstairs.

Her parents were talking quietly over a cup of tea. Dad was in his work trousers and two jumpers. He was lacing up his heavy boots and his thick overcoat was over the back of a chair. Her mother handed her a cup and she listened carefully.

Dad had already checked. There was thick snow well up above the level of the doorstep. There were no buses. The snow was being driven by a high wind. He, dad, could probably get to the shop, but none of the others stood a chance. There would be no school today in any case – in fact if you were small going out would be dangerous. So they would stay in. There was enough food for a day or two and as soon as the wind dropped things would be easier. He pulled on his coat, added a cap and scarf and left. She watched him as he hunched out of sight towards the main road.

THE DOORMAN by Patricia Gray

“Are you going to go up and do a bit of training when we have a break, Billy?

Cause these’ll do you no good if you are. Well, they’ll do you no good if you’re not, according to me mam. Coffin nails she calls them. But I don’t believe her,” Jonesy mused looking at the glowing end of his cigarette. “I think she only says that so I’ll stop and have more money to give her for me keep.”

“Ya, I’m going up at break to do a bit,” said Billy bouncing on his toes. “It’s the boxing finals in a week or two and I want to be right at me peak. There’s some good lads coming through so I’ll have to get fit as a butcher’s dog.”

He feinted a couple of punches, moving lightly on his feet as he moved around his imaginary opponent.

“Hey you look good enough to be a dancer on the stage prancing about like that

Billy Mason; play your cards right and I just might let you have the last dance later.” The voice belonged to Sadie Thompson and was as attractive as the rest of her.

For an answer Billy gave a long low wolf whistle as she drifted past him on a cloud of Chanel Number Five. He rolled his eyes upwards as he mouthed the word ‘gorgeous’ at Jonesy’s grinning face.

SEEKING APPROVAL by Faye Burgess

"D.a.a.a.d".

The word danced on my tongue. I used that sing song tone, all too familiar to my parents, indicated that I wanted something.

The reply was in a questioning, authoritative,  flat tone.

"Yes?"

The fact that my father answered in the affirmative was not an indication of pre-empted approval to whatever I was about to ask, it was simply his first line of defence. I was in my early teens and had mastered the art of listening to those three letters being spoken and had developed an uncanny ability to read his mood and execute the line of strategy required. Sometimes I asked, adding hurriedly in the same breath, as if the quicker I said it the less of a fabrication it actually was, that Mum had said, "Yes". Clearly the  only thing Mum had said was, "Go and ask your Father". This applied vice versa and often involved many trips between parents, relaying misinterpreted messages, albeit with ever so slight a variation on the spoken word from one to another.

A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR by Nigel Hague

Maire could not cover her irritation at Lillian Geek’s request for assistance to go to the toilet.

“Why didn’t you go before you went to bed?” she had barked.

Maire didn’t even listen to the answer. She was desperate to get back to Stanley and said nothing more as she bundled the 87-year old Lillian back into bed. Before Maire went back to Stanley on the couch she switched Lillian’s bedroom light off and banged the door closed behind her. She knew Lillian was afraid of the dark but was so intent on getting back to Stanley that she forgot. Lillian spent the dark hours of the night clutching her bedclothes tightly in her fingers held under her chin, gazing into the dark room and imagining monsters in every corner. Four days later Lillian Geek died peacefully in her sleep.

Edith Carpenter and Shirley Moore had moved into St. Stephen’s within a week of one another almost twelve months ago. Both had been unable to cope with the physical demands of looking after themselves at 85 and 82 respectively. But their minds were active, and they would spend their time reading, completing the crosswords in the more stretching papers, and talking about the good old days. Neither of the two ladies liked Maire Regan, but they were careful to keep it from her.

From the Webmaster:

I do hope these excerpts have given you a taster for what these short stories are about and have made you want to read more.

S

HERE WE HAVE MOST OF THE WRITERS WITH THE MAYOR OF OLDHAM AT THE BOOK LAUNCH IN APRIL 2010

From left to right, Lesley Truchet, Marjory Travis, Amanda Carr, Patricia Gray, Carol Marie Higgins, Carolina de la Cruz and his worship, the mayor, Mr. Jim McCardle

Artwork by Gemma Hall

OLDHAM WRITING CAFE