The Story Collection: Volume One

by Matt Shaw

  “What now?” he asked.

  Sarah pulled herself together to answer, “We’re going back to the bed and breakfast, her aunty is on the way to pick her up from there.”

  “Poor girl,” said Joel...

  Even Adam, usually filled with smart-arsed comments, didn’t have anything to say - his eyes also welled up.

  James said, “I’ve got to see if she’s okay....”

  He ran up the stairs and I went with him. I’m not sure why, I’m rubbish with things like this. I never know what to say. The right words to bring some sort of comfort to a person in their hour of need, the words normally escape me.

  At the top of the stairs we could hear Josie crying. Such sorrow. I couldn’t help cry for her, as I walked down the corridor with James.... past the girls’ bedroom and down the second corridor, following the sound of her heart-broken sobs.

  James took the lead, I let him.

  If he really does like this girl, now is his time to prove it. Now is his time to be there for her.

  We stopped outside the door and he knocked.

  “Josie?”

  There was no answer. She probably didn’t hear over her own crying. I felt terrible, for her. Had she not forged the note.... had she stayed at home....

  James twisted the door handle and pushed the door open before suddenly screaming. A loud ear-piercing scream.... and I could see why. I felt as though my heart stopped when I saw her.... hanging from the curtain pole. One of the ropes, which once tied the curtains back, now tightly around her neck.

  Swinging from side to side, her grey face - shimmering where the light bounced off where her tears had earlier rolled.

  Her crying was still audible and yet her face.... so lifeless.

  It was then I noticed which room we were in.

  ~ THE END

  A QUICK NOTE

  I won’t lie to you - it has taken me sixteen years to write this book. Not because I struggled with the concept, just because I kept finding something else to write instead. I’ve always liked the idea but was never sure of how to go about writing it as a novel.... see, when I first had the idea.... and, indeed, first wrote it - I wrote it as a screenplay.

  I used to belong to a drama group in Shawford (filled with fit girls too!) and it was run by two ladies - one being Sarah and the other being.... erm.... well, her name isn’t important. I blame the years of smoking weed, and the fact she was one of the least interesting people I had ever met, as to why I can’t remember her name.

  As part of this drama group - Sarah wanted to make a film with us (sounds dodgy but, for once, I’m not talking porn). The secondary teacher fancied herself as a bit of a screenplay writer herself.... and why wouldn’t she - she even went to university to do it! Bollocks to that, by the way, if you want to write - just write. You don’t need some teachers telling you how to write, what to write and in what genre, or style. You just need passion.

  By the time she mentioned this, I had been writing (crap) screenplays for over three years. Anyway, my partner in crime - James - suggested I wrote a screenplay too. Who was I to argue, I thought I’d write it and offer it up as an alternative to whatever this woman came up with.

  I still think mine was better.

  I remember James reading it (knowing I kept the names the same in the original screenplay as we were to play ourselves) and telling me how horrible it was, because of the ending. I can even tell you where we were when he said that to me - we were in the Eastleigh branch of McDonalds. Only the best places, I go to!

  As you’re no doubt already aware, I enjoy endings that leave you thinking ‘bloody hell’ and I loved the ending for ‘The Chosen Routes’. If I’m ever lucky enough to sell my work to producers, and such like, one of the main conditions will be - the endings remain.

  Anyway, just wanted to share that little fact with you.

  For the record - I never showed the teachers my screenplay and we only ever filmed two scenes of this other screenplay we were offered.

  I played a corpse.

  WRITER’S BLOCK

  PART 1

  Writer's block is a condition, primarily associated with writing as a profession, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work.

  1.

  The crisp, white page is staring at me from where it’s positioned on my typewriter; waiting for my words to graffiti it’s pure face. It moves gently, swaying in the breeze caused by my desk fan, taunting me for my inability to type anything.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t think of anything to write? Brain-fade? That can’t be much fun. Not for someone of your profession; a writer.”

  I look down to my fingers - willing them to move and write something... anything. Anything to silence the mocking. Nothing comes. No words. Nothing.

  “How long has it been since you’ve written something now, anyway? Feels like ages.”

  It has been ages. Too long.

  Any fan base I might have once had, have probably long forgotten who I am. I’ll have to start again.

  “Maybe you should fill me with your curriculum vitae?” the page laughs.

  Up yours.

  I rip it from the typewriter’s spool and screw it into a tight little ball. A little snigger escapes my mouth as I listen to the page’s final screams of pain.

  Taunt me no more; a quick flick of the wrist and I lob it across the room where it bounces off my wife’s head before landing on the floor.

  Rebecca doesn’t even bat an eyelid. She doesn’t even acknowledge my existence as the paper-ball rolls, unevenly, to a standstill in the doorway of my study. She just sits there, reading bits from my notebook.

  A red, lined book filled with pages and pages of my scrawled writing. Ideas. Hundreds of ideas - some more involved than others. Some ideas weaving intricate plots and complicated character notes across a page, or two. Other ideas - nothing more than a single sentence.

  I don’t normally let people read my notes. They’re too basic. I don’t want people seeing such raw material. I don’t want them stealing the ideas.

  I don’t want them mocking them, either.

  But.

  I’m stuck.

  I’ve not been able to write anything of worth for months now, as the blank page reminded me. If Rebecca can look through my notes and tell me which of the ideas she likes the most - at least it will encourage me to concentrate on one of them. In my present frustrated frame of mind, I can’t see any of the ideas as good.

  I need Rebecca.

  I need an outsider’s perspective. Seemed like an obvious choice, to choose my wife’s opinion then.

  An outsider.

  I fed another piece of white paper into my typewriter and sat back in the chair, looking at Rebecca. How much longer does she need? Should I interrupt her? Disturb her reading and try, perhaps, to hurry her along a little?

  “This one...” she said, with no warning.

  I sit up.

  “Why,” she continued, “did you write it like this? The other ideas and notes, in here...” she started flicking through the pages, “they’re written down the page but,” she turned back to the page she was originally referring to, “this page, this page here is written across the page....” she looks at me, a quizzical look in her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Also - the writing is slightly angled sideways too whereas the writing, on the other pages, is perfectly straight; neater, if anything.”

  Bite my tongue.

  “Actually, having said that....” she flicks backwards and forwards through the pages, comparing the writing on each of the leaves, “.... having said that, I suppose this is quite neat. Just different, I guess.”

  I stood up and walked across to the far wall of the study, where I had a little two-seater sofa. I slumped down.

  “What about the ideas?” I sighed.

  “Not sure.... Look, you have another style of writing here too....”

  “Well, thank you for your help. I probably couldn’t have don
e it without you.”

  “You’re like a child,” she continued, “trying to find his own style of writing....”

  “What?”

  She turns another page, “And look at this one - you’re trying to write like I do!”

  “It’s my scrap book.... rough notes.... I think of an idea.... open the book up and just scribble it down. I never thought someone would, one day, be judging my handwriting!”

  She closes the book and smiles at me again, “Well I like them all.”

  Handwriting styles or notes; I don’t ask. I’m already close to losing the will to live.

  “You’ll get there, I’m sure,” she said as she put the book onto the laminated flooring. “Anyway, I best get ready?”

  “Ready?”

  “The neighbours are coming round at ten. I did tell you.”

  And I chose to ignore her. She knows I don’t like visitors. Hate it, in fact. I didn’t move to this country-side cottage because I liked fields. I liked the surrounding peace and quiet. I liked that it wasn’t easy for anyone to just ‘pop in’ for a coffee.

  “I’m writing,” I lied as I stood up and walked back over to the typewriter. “You know I don’t like being disturbed when I’m on a flow.”

  She knows I’m lying.

  Hide my lie.

  I start hitting random keys - stringing together made-up words and sentences of pure gibberish. She’s still looking at me. I stop typing and look at her.

  Rebecca sensibly backed down, “Okay, we won’t disturb you then.”

  She stood up and walked from the room, closing the door behind her.

  Peace.

  Quiet.

  Just the way I like it.

  I look down to the page - just as I thought - nothing but gibberish. Certainly nothing I can use.

  “So.... when was the last time you wrote something?”

  I tear the page from the typewriter and repeat the earlier procedure - screw it into a ball; throw it across to the corner of the room where the other one died.

  * * * * *

  Voices?

  Voices.

  Voices wake me up. Fell asleep at the typewriter again. Every day I manage to doze off at the typewriter. Every day. It wouldn’t be so bad if there were words on the page and the sleep was my own little reward for a job well done but... there’s nothing.

  I sit up and wipe the drool from my chin.

  The voices - did they just mention my name? Quietly I stand up and walk over to the closed door, softly-softly. They might not know I’m here. Normally, when Rebecca knows I don’t want to see people, she just says I am out. It saves her the embarrassment of having to tell the visitors I’m too rude to come out of my study to make a personal appearance.

  It’s not that I’m rude. I just find it irritating to be disturbed when I’m in a flow.

  I look down to the typewriter. I hadn’t even loaded a new sheet of A4 into it, before I fell asleep. Who am I trying to kid? I’m not in a flow. Haven’t been for ages now.

  Months.

  At least.

  My name - again.

  They are talking about me. I press my ear against the door and strain to hear the garbled voices. What are they saying?

  “Is he home?”

  A male voice. Can’t say I recognise it.

  “I’m afraid he’s a little tied up at the moment...”

  Rebecca, not letting on my whereabouts. Smart. She doesn’t like lying so answers in a vague way to avoid giving a definite ‘yes’ or ‘no’. I hate it when she does it to me.

  “That’s a shame,” same male voice, I think, “it would have been nice to meet him. Author, isn’t he?”

  If he has to ask whether I’m an author then he isn’t the sort of person I want to meet. I don’t sit at my typewriter all day and night, sweating over words and stories and complicated characters just to have someone have to ask whether I’m an author or not.

  “Used to be...”

  What the fuck, Rebecca? Used to be? What the fuck...

  “He hasn’t written for a while, not since the last story - I think he’s suffering from writer’s block,” she’s continuing. Jesus, Rebecca, shut up. You’re making me sound like a loser.

  “I’ve written a few books myself.”

  The male voice.

  New neighbour? I don’t like him.

  “I’m only too familiar with the curse of writer’s block,” he went on. God, doesn’t he go on. It’s probably for the best I stay in here. I don’t think I could bite my tongue with this ‘writer’. Pretending to know what I am going through - he knows nothing. He knows nothing about me.

  Hell, he even had to ask if I’m a writer.

  When my book came out - I was praised for the realism. People wanted to meet me. People asked for my autograph. Groups took my photograph. I even made it into the papers as more and more people cottoned onto my work and wrote up about it. Even had me a Facebook page made up, where people were leaving comments for me. At least, that’s what I heard. I never actually went on to read the comments. Just retired back to my study to work on my next novel.

  My next novel.

  That’s a joke.

  I creep back over to the typewriter. Quick scan around the room - there’s about a hundred and fourteen screwed up balls of paper on the floor. Some with a few sentences on them, some completely empty.

  Rebecca said it was a waste, screwing up blank pieces of paper but I disagree. If a page stays empty for more than an hour - it’s cursed and there’ll never be anything on it. Get rid of it. It’s the only way.

  “Oh, don’t be so stupid,” would always be her retort as she’d bend over to pick the crumbled scraps up off of the floor.

  “LEAVE THEM!” I always bark at her.

  I like the mess on the floor.

  I like the screwed up pieces of cursed paper. I look at them and am reminded that, even after all this time, I haven’t given up. All these months, I haven’t given up. With that in mind, it would be a shame to give up now.

  The scraps encourage me to keep going.

  “You’ve come so far,” they’d whisper to me, “don’t give up now.”

  Words of encouragement from the once cursed pieces of paper that’d just taunt me from, what they thought to be, the relative safety of the typewriter. Perhaps the change in their attitude is brought about as they try and seek forgiveness before being condemned to the recycling bin, or bonfire - depending on my mood.

  A little laugh escapes my lips as I think of them screaming as they burn in the centre of a small, back-yard bonfire. A little laugh that is quickly silenced....

  They say, everyone has at least one good story in them.

  What if one story is all I had to give?

  2.

  One more day of screwing up bits of paper and wasted hours of no-creativeness. Maybe I should stop calling myself an author. Maybe, when people ask what I do, I should just tell them I’m unemployed.

  “What if we go back to our spot?” said Rebecca, after informing me that the neighbours had left. She put a cup of tea, not that I drink tea, to the side of the typewriter and sat down on the chair by the door, where she was sat earlier. “I was telling the neighbours all about our spot,” she said.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I replied - moving the cup of tea further away from my reach as though it’s very presence offended me.

  “They’re new to the area and I thought they might want to know about it, down there!”

  “It’s our spot. Ours. I like it. I don’t want other people going down there and ruining it. We can’t go back there now. They’ll ruin it.”

  “No, they won’t. It’s so big down there, I’m sure we wouldn’t even bump into them even if we did happen to go on the same day.”

  I’m annoyed.

  That was our spot.

  Rebecca’s and mine.

  It’s not for anyone else.

  Ours.

  A glorious, unspoiled peace of woodland - miles
from anywhere - which leads onto a lake; one of the cleanest I have ever seen in Britain. Water, so clear it looks as though you could drink from it, should you feel the urge.