The Story Collection: Volume One
Page 1
© Matt Shaw
The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.
The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
From the same author
Scribblings From A Dark Place
The Vampire’s Treaty
Happy Ever After (Part of the Happy Ever After Trilogy)
G.S.O.H Essential (Part of the Happy Ever After Trilogy)
A Fresh Start (Part of the Happy Ever After Trilogy)
Happy Ever After - The Trilogy (also available in Paperback)
PETER (sequel to Happy Ever After)
All Good Things (sequel to PETER)
im fine
Wasting Stamps
I Hate Fruit & Veg
9 Months - Book One
9 Months - Book Two
9 Months - Book Three
9 Months - The Trilogy (also available in Paperback)
PlentyofFreaks
For a signed copy of the Happy Ever After Trilogy or the 9 Months Trilogy, email matt@mattshawpublications.co.uk
IN THIS BOOK:
THE LAST STOP
THE CHOSEN ROUTES
WRITER’S BLOCK
SMILE
LOVE LIFE
A word from Matt Shaw
I don’t know why I wrote a word from ‘Matt Shaw’ - surely I should have just written a word from ‘me’ after all I am him. Now it looks as though the heading is written by someone else... an unsung hero who is alerting you all that, what is about to follow, is a word from the author of the book before he allows you the chance to escape in his stories. But that isn’t the case, it was me writing the heading - just as I have written everything else in this book - and now I feel I have added confusion to the mix and we haven’t even started with my stories yet. Although, thinking about it, if any of you are like me (waves) then chances are you’ve skipped these words because you don’t care what I have to say about the work contained within this book. Shame, though, because these words took me months to write. Okay, that was a lie. I actually wrote them in about fifteen minutes whilst half watching Eastenders - on the television in the corner of the room.
Anyway - let us forget all that and just move on to what I really wanted to say.
Now I know it looks as though I am starting to turn into a bit of a ‘George Lucas’ - I keep releasing different versions of the same books - and I just wanted to assure you, that isn’t the case. The reason I have released different versions of my stories (by that I mean the single books and then the ‘collections’) is because I am merely responding to reviews which have been left on various websites. Believe it or not, I read everything you fine people say and try to take onboard as many points as possible.
With that in mind, recently, one particular review (I forget which book it was for) stated they found the price to be a little steep. This came as a bit of a shock because the book, they bought, was actually £1.53 and came in at just over one hundred pages in length (and that’s not even including the blank pages!) I personally thought the price was fair but, not wishing to alienate the reader, I realised I must do something about this.
Some of my books go for as little as seventy-seven pence. I can’t say I enjoy selling my work at that price but I’d sooner people bought it as opposed to ignored it so, I’ll do what it takes. But, even with that in mind, some of my books are worth more than seventy-seven pence simply because of the time they’ve taken to write and I’m reluctant to let them go for any less than one pound fifty.... one pound being the absolute lowest. Unless it’s as part of a bulk purchase... which is how I came to release ‘the collections’.
I put the ‘Happy Ever After’ trilogy as one collection, the ‘9 Months Trilogy’ as another collection and my stand alone stories as a final collection - I then set the price lower on the collections than if you were to purchase the books separately. That way I’m not losing out as much as I would if I sold a single book at seventy-seven pence and the readers, as long as they’re willing to take a gamble with a slightly higher initial price, get a bargain in the long run. Hopefully, by doing so, this keeps everyone happy!
I’m particularly keen to release this as a collection, too, as - despite the stories contained selling well singularly - they haven’t sold half as well as the Happy Ever After series of books and, to be honest, I think it’s a bit of a shame because they’re just as good as that series.... just different stories.
Hopefully, by releasing this collection - more people will discover stories they might have, previously, missed.
Anyway, I think that’s enough waffling on - all that’s left for me to say is thanks for reading my work and I hope you continue to support me as an author.
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THE
STORY
COLLECTION
VOLUME ONE
THE LAST STOP
PROLOGUE
My employer sat opposite me as we sit in silence.
He’s just looking at me.
Am I supposed to say something?
No.
The letter says it all.
The letter, that’s in his hand. Still. Open. Read.
Finally he breaks the silence and holds up my letter, “I don’t want to accept it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing I can say?”
“No.”
“I think you’re making a mistake.”
“I don’t.”
“You realise you need to give us a month?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
I smile.
I have a plan.
Of sorts.
“I’ll tell you what - let’s keep this between you and me, for now... if you change your mind...”
“I won’t.”
“.... if you change your mind we’ll tear this up and forget it ever happened. Have a think about it tonight. Sleep on it.”
“Thank you but that’s not necessary.”
“Even so... it’ll make me feel better.”
“I’m going abroad.”
“Abroad?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Australia.”
“A holiday? If you just need some time out...”
“A bit more permanent than that.”
“Emigrating.”
I smile.
“Wow. Lucky. You kept that one quiet from us. Do you have family out there?”
“No.”
“Just decided to go over there?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me. A look of pity on his face? He think’s I’m lying. But I’m not. Admittedly I haven’t got the plane ticket organised yet but...
“What does your wife think?”
“Ex.”
“Sorry.”
“She doesn’t know. No need.”
“Definitely sure?”
I nod.
“Well, I won’t lie... it’ll be a shame to see you go.”
I stand up. The unscheduled meeting is obviously coming to an end.
In turn, he stands and extends his hand. In the last ten years of working for him, this will be the second time we have ever shaken hands.
The first time was when he gave me the job.
“I’ll have a letter for you by the time you clock off this afternoon, accepting your resignation then.”
We shake hands.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“If you need anything, my door is always open....”
I smile and leave his office, closing the door behind me.
As I walk down the corridor - towards the stairs that lead me to my office - a feeling of excitement tingles through my tired body.
Notice has been given....
A huge weight lifted from my shoulders. If I was going to back out of my plans - today was the day.
It should be easy from here on in.
I can’t wait.
The
Last Stop
Matt Shaw
1.
I never knew it was terminal.
When I was first diagnosed, I never knew it would be the beginning of The End.
Some people, I imagine, would be upset to learn they only had a couple of months left to live.
Not me.
No.
I’m glad.
I can’t wait.
The End.
I hope it’s as permanent as it sounds.
At first I thought this illness was something I simply had to live with; an illness that would plague me for years and years - stopping me from reaching my true potential.
The truth is...
It’s not terminal.
Far from it.
It’s only terminal because I choose it to be.
There’s medication that can help with the mood-swings. There’s pills to help silence the demons screaming in my head - pulling me into a darkness which shrouds me for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. But the pills.... it’s not as simple as that. The pills. They don’t make the monsters go away.
Far from it.
They just numb them.
They numb everything.
I don’t want to be part of the Prozac Nation.
A living zombie, slave to my tablets.
No.
I’ve had enough.
Her.
Her leaving me. The final nail in the coffin.
Proof that people, like me, don’t really function or fit in with the normal society.
The Rat Race.
Yes, I’ve had enough.
No more.
I’m done.
In two months I’ll be done.
I’ll be done with this illness.
I’ll be done with everything.
Get the next thirty days out of the way - finish work whilst clearing the possessions from my life... How I ended up with so much, I don’t know. Possessions don’t give you a fuller life. They just tie you down. He who dies with the most toys still dies. There’s just more left behind for the loved ones to clear away.
And when I do finish work and I have got rid of my worldly possessions, tying me to this miserable life.... the thirty days after that stage is finished with....
Well, I’ll make them count.
I’ll make them really count.
Go out with a bang.
Literally.
Ringing?
I snap back to reality.
Sitting in my lounge, curtains closed hiding me from the outside world.
Prying eyes.
My mobile phone, on the side of the sofa, is ringing.
I don’t want to answer it.
Open the door to conversation, like I want that?
Could be important.
Could be her.
I reach over, from the other side of the sofa, and lift my phone towards me - pressing the ‘answer’ key as I do.
“Hello? Yes, this is me.”
It’s not her.
She hasn’t been in touch since the day she walked out. Why’d I think it was her? Stupid. Should have known better. Withheld number too. Definitely should have ignored it.
I hang up.
More debt collectors - all trying to get what they believe is owed. It is owed. I’m just not going to pay it. No need. I stopped my direct debits a couple of days after she walked out. My two month game plan was decided pretty soon after she left and paying off my debts didn’t figure into it one little bit. Instead, I applied for another credit card.
Came through too, nice limit on it.
That’ll go on a plane ticket.
First class, I think. I deserve it. Some happiness in life is owed and if that happiness comes in the form of extra leg room, comfier chairs and a better level of service - well, I’m all for that. A bit of luxury might even help shift this mood, which would be nice.
My moods come and go - sometimes happy.... mostly sad. I’m not sure why although I believe my father suffered from the same. The difference was, he was able to hide it. But then, he always was the better person when he was alive. He used to see how badly my moods affected me and he’d pull me to one side and tell me it was nothing but a state of weakness. Bury it or get over it, was his advice.
Good, old fatherly advice.
Where would I be without it?
And he wonders why we drifted apart during his final years before his own body punished him for burying his feelings and issues. A massive heart-attack. I wonder, is this what I have to look forward to? If that’s the case, I’d sooner it hit now - get it over and done with. Bang. Done. Over.
A knock on the front door of my flat breaks my morbid thoughts.
Debt collectors doing home visits now?
Since she has left, no one really visits. Her friends were my friends and, obviously, they sided with her during the split. Not that I can blame them - I was a miserable bastard to be around.
I’m my own worst enemy.
I got up from the lounge sofa and walked down the flat’s cluttered hallway, towards the front door - where another knock tries to get me to hurry up.
Spy-holes.
If you suffer from depression, this is one of the best inventions you could wish for. A little chance to see if the person, on the other side of the door, is worth opening it for.
Shit.
I’d sooner a debt-collector.
“I know you’re in there, I heard you...”
Mum.
The other main suspect in dad’s heart attack.
She banged on the door again.
No sense pretending I’m out. She’ll only hold it against me for months to come. Reluctantly, I opened the door.
“Hi, mum.”
She stepped in, past me, and immediately clocked the clutter in the hallway.
“I’ve just heard about your job....”
Ah, perks of working in the same office as family friends....
“What the Hell is all this?”
Cardboard boxes - some full.... some waiting to be filled. Various messages scribbled on the boxes. Messages to help me remember whether the contents are worth selling.... or just crap. The latter - ready to be dropped into local charity shops.
I’m all about the giving.