The September 2016 TCWG Creative Writing Competition: Where to find the stories and how to vote

 

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All tcwg site members (and any other interested parties) are invited to read and enjoy the stories entered in the September 2016 TCWG creative writing competition.

If, having read all the stories, you would like to register your vote for the winner and placings, then please follow the voting instructions set out below. This is not obligatory, but if you choose to join in, your participation will be very much appreciated.
JUST FOLLOW THE LINKS TO ALL THE STORIES (which are listed below), AND YOU WILL FIND EACH STORY IN TURN.
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The deadline for entries into the July 2016 Creative Writing Competition passed at Midnight on the 30th. September 2016.

The topic for the September stories was set by the winner of the July 2016 competition , Peter Barnett who graciously agreed that there should be an open topic with each writer choosing his or hers topic of choice.

11 members have entered a total of 13 stories, and thanks are due to them for their efforts. Advance thanks are also offered to all those group members who I hope will now support the competition by reading the stories and registering their vote in the form of a comment below on this post.

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VOTING PROCEDURE.

As in previous months, when voting it will help if voters will make sure to quote the name of the story when posting their vote, particularly in the case where an author has entered more than one story.

Voting can now commence and will continue until 11 p.m. on Monday the 10th of October 2016.
There are no restrictions as to who is allowed to vote, all that is asked is that the voter reads all the stories and votes according to their preference. A brief reason for the choice is welcome but not mandatory.
Voters are requested to vote 5 points for first place, 3 points for second, and 1 point for third place.
Please do not submit any other point combinations such as 3/3/3, 4/4/1, 5/2/2, etc.
Writers are requested not to vote for any of their own entries, and voters are asked not to comment at length about the stories or record any thoughts that you may have on them, until after voting closes.

There will be no detailed summaries posted as to how the voting is progressing throughout the voting period but as soon as possible after voting closes a tabulated list of results will be posted separately and the winner declared. If then you wish to describe in detail the reasons for your choices, or comment at length about some or all of the individual stories, a separate page will be set up at the end of the voting period and after the result has been posted.

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List of entries received. (If I have inadvertently missed an entry or entries, please advise.)

JAVA LAVA. Written by Peter Barnett

https://aasof.com/2016/09/23/java-lava/#more-20343

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THE ROAD TO HELL. Written by Charles Stuart.

https://furryfeatures.wordpress.com/2016/09/27/the-road-to-hell/

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TEEING OFF WITH A BOILED EGG. Written by Atiller.

https://atiller16.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/a-september-2016-ctwg-short-story-entry/

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BETHANY’S CHAIR. Written by Capucin.

https://davidgoodwin935.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/bethanys-chair/

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A FUNERAL. Written by Colmore.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/setember-2016-ctwg-story/

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THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY. Written by Araminta.

https://detectivemouse.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/the-persistence-of-memory/

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THE AUCHENSHUGGLE BIRD. Written by Lostinwords.

https://lostinwords2.wordpress.com/2016/09/27/september-2016-competition/

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THE FINAL MEETING. Written by tp_archie.

http://tparchie.deviantart.com/art/The-Final-Meeting-637202826

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THE RED SWEATER. Written by ExpatAngie.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/september-entry-short-stories/

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TWO SIDES OF A DIFFERENT COIN. Written by Danthemann.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/sep-comp-entry-two-sides-of-a-different-coin/

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BRIAN LARA LOVES BATTING. By Danthemann.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/sep-comp-entry-brian-lara-loves-batting/

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INVENTORY OF A BEACH BAG. Written by Seadam.

https://seadamsblog.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/inventory-of-a-beach-bag/

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Mme. ROSE. Written by ExpatAngie. (To find … Scroll down from The Red Sweater.)

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/september-entry-short-stories/

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Pleasant reading and please  remember to vote.

 

 

The September 2016 CW Competition. Full details of how to enter.

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A FREE ENTRY WRITING COMPETITION OPEN TO ALL!
Details of the September 2016 Creative Writing Competition.
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The topic for September has been set by the winner of the July 2016 competition Peter Barnett who has graciously agreed that there should be an open topic with each writer choosing his or hers topic of choice.

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The length of the story in September has been set at between 250 and 750 words and competitors are reminded that multiple entries can be accepted on as many different topics as each individual competitor chooses
Closing date for entries will be Midnight on Friday the 3oth. of September 2016.
The period for receiving votes will be announced when the competition closes, and votes will not be accepted until after the competition closes.
The “prize” for winning this September competition will be to set the topic for November 2016.

Voting.
After the competition closes there will be a vote to decide the first three places.
Just after the closing date, details of how to vote and a vote collection point will be set up here on this competition blogpage.

How to enter.
Post your story on your personal WordPress blogs and post a link to your story in the form of a comment below.

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And a reminder to those still without their own WordPress site.

WordPress is not the most user friendly of sites but if I can manage it (admittedly not without some frustrations), then I am sure that we all can  … help in setting up your own blog is available, so please ask.

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For those unfamiliar with the workings of the monthly competition a list of detailed rules for the competition can be found here …
https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/competition-rules/

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Pleasant writing and good luck with your stories. After the encouraging increase in the number of entries last month it seems that we may at last be coming to terms with the new arrangements … please can we make September a bumper month.

 

The August 2016 TCWG Creative Writing Competition. Full details of how to enter.

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A FREE ENTRY WRITING COMPETITION OPEN TO ALL!
Details of the August 2016 Creative Writing Competition.

The topic for AUGUST has been set by the winner of the May/June 2016 competition  Seadams who chosen “ISLANDS” and has commented as follows …

ISLANDS.
“I’ve been thinking about islands and their connotations recently. I am quite fascinated by islands, and the idea of living on one permanently (but then, I suppose I already do.)

Island – isola – isolate…insula – insular…

I propose for August we write a story with an island setting – be it desert, tropical, luxurious; real or imaginary; legendary or metaphorical; Channel, Canary, Balearic, Pacific, Hebridean, Caribbean…stacks, reefs, atolls, archipelagos…but no cheating, please: no peninsulas.”

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The length of the story in August will be the regular “between 500 and 3000 words”, and competitors are reminded that multiple entries can be accepted, particularly of the shorter variety.
Closing date for entries will be Midnight on Wednesday the 31st. of August 2016.
The period for receiving votes will be announced when the competition closes, and votes will not be accepted until after the competition closes.
The “prize” for winning this July competition will be to set the topic for October 2016 when I am proposing that we will have a lower limit of 250 to 750 words, giving an opportunity for some writers to make multiple entries.

Voting.
After the competition closes there will be a vote to decide the first three places.
Just after the closing date, details of how to vote, and a vote collection point will be set up here in this competition section.

How to enter.
Post your story on your personal WordPress blogs and post a link to your story in the form of a comment below (“Leave a reply” panel.)

For those unfamiliar with the workings of the monthly competition a list of detailed rules for the competition can be found here …
https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/competition-rules/

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Pleasant writing and good luck. There are still a few teething problems (some more aggravating than others), but please persevere, and with Autumn approaching let’s try to get back into double figure entries once again.

Remember … help with your problems is available so please ask.

The Reunion

Paul gazed across the room recognizing many faces he hadn’t seen for years, well in fact most of them, as he’d been living and working abroad for the last twenty years. He looked around to see who else was there, especially certain old members whom he’d hoped very much to meet up with again. Something had suddenly spurred him a few months ago into accepting the invite to attend and booking his flight from Toulouse.
He greeted them and chatted, some he remembered he’d liked and been friendly with – Phil, now a classics teacher at a private school in Dorset (unmarried, but in a “committed relationship” he’d admittedly slightly nervously); Johnnie, the Jewish sportsman who’d strayed so often from the path of righteousness it used to be a standing joke – along with the fact he used (not so) secretly to eat pork sausages with relish – but who was now married with four children and MD of the family business; Sean, the Essex lad who’d gone to school with a former West Ham and England footballer, a decent footballer himself but now a consulting engineer in South East Africa Africa; Tim, a quietly spoken maths student, now a respectable and prosperous accountant in Birmingham.
Then the women. The college had been one of the earliest to admit women – Geraldine the philosopher and currently a newly minted Professor at King’s London, Jenny the earnest and starchy lawyer and now a Q.C., Harriet, the medic, now a GP in prosperous Stratford-on-Avon.
Yes, Paul had read all the brief biographical summaries the College had circulated.
And then those he’d rather disliked, James the still utterly self-assured lawyer who now “managed funds” in the City and oozed wealth from every pore – as he had as an undergraduate; Martin, the brash Birmingham boy who still had the short bandy legs and the beard – greying now – still talked the loudest, clearly still thought he was the most important person in the room and was “something in the City” and Chris, one of the smoothest people to glide across this earth, still smooth and obviously so wealthy from being in banking – wealthier, that is, than when he was an undergraduate. They wouldn’t be out of place in a Parisian salon or a Geneva soiree Paul thought.
There was a loud bang of a gong and Sir Thomas Ewen, the College Master, stood a on a chair at the back of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can I formally welcome you all back to St. Matthew’s College for this gaudy. I will say a few more words later at the end of dinner but in the meantime renew old friendships and enjoy the meal. Oh, and Ted assures me the bar in Deep Hall will be open for a good few hours after dinner.”
Gosh, Paul thought, Ted was still going strong though he must be in his late sixties. He was glad, he reflected, as the College servants had mostly been very kind to the students and Ted had been – still was presumably – one of the best.
The old members filed into the Hall, with Paul still looking around to see if certain old friends were present. So far, no luck. They finished the traditional college grace (read in impeccable Latin) by Phil and sat down to dinner.
He seated himself next to several old friends with whom he chatted politely and, in some cases, quite animatedly. A number of them were interested, even slightly puzzled, by his permanent move to teach in France.
“Well, as you know, I read Modern Languages, qualified as a teacher, then after a year or so at a public school in Dorset, saw an interesting job for a teacher at a private school in Tours and I went for it – yes, they do have private schools over there. Having been in France twenty or so years, I now have a really good job as deputy head teacher at an international school in Auch down in the south-west. I’m accepted by the locals so really pretty content. Never got on with my family, as some of you might remember – well, except for my sister – but she lives in Switzerland so I see her quite often.”
“But who are your pupils?” Sean enquired. “An international school in the south-west of France?”
“Oh, we take boarders so we get pupils from all over, Airbus people and other employees from the Toulouse send their children to us…. And some French people want their children to have a broader education. We teach the International Baccalaureat mainly. I like it as it’s better than teaching GCSE and A level stuff. And the lifestyle is better.”
“I have to say, you sound a bit French,” Phil joked. “Your dress sense is a bit more sophisticated than the rest of us.”
“Really,” Paul raised an eyebrow. “I had a devil of a job to hire the dinner jacket in Toulouse – couldn’t get one in Auch- as we don’t tend to wear them in France, at least not in the country – not worn one in twenty years. It took me a while to hunt one down.”
The dinner finished with a few speeches, mercifully fairly short, though Sir Thomas made his usual appeal for funds before the guests filed down to the cellar bar to continue the convivial conversations, fuelled by Ted’s seemingly inexhaustible memories of individual students.
It was then he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a soft quiet voice behind him,
“Hello, Paul, how are you after all these years?”
He spun round recognising the voice immediately.
“Jeanette…. I’m fine, thanks, and enjoying life and it’s really lovely to see you again. But more importantly how are you?”
Paul beamed at the woman in front of him, somewhat shorter than him with a broad smile, short but curly dark hair, greying a bit in parts, piercing blue eyes, a slim face and a reasonably trim body suitably attired in a blue evening dress. He gulped then politely asked her how she was as they moved away from the crowded bar area.
“I’m well too, given life’s little bumps. But what are you doing with yourself? I keep reading in the College Record you’re living in France and are a deputy head teacher. I guess you seem to have done well. You live in Toulouse now, don’t you? Isn’t that in south-west France?”
“In Auch actually but it’s quite near Toulouse. I’m a deputy head at a private international school.” Paul laughed. “But what about you? I gather you’re one of the editors of “Europe” magazine – yes, I read the Record too, you know.”
“Oh, I live in London….. Have done since I left the College. I went into journalism as you’ve probably guessed – started as a junior reporter with the Evening Standard then worked my way up steadily with a slight hiatus after a couple of years….”
Paul raised his eyebrows questioningly, though half guessing what was coming. He had already glanced at her left hand and observed the absence of a wedding ring.
“You know,” Jeanette continued, “I was with that wretched man from Balliol when I left, when you were on your year out in France and Germany….. Of course, you do….. Well we married although I’m not sure why…. Seemed to be a natural progression. Anyway after three years I got pregnant but miscarried and lost the baby at six months. I got a bad infection and I was in and out of hospital for some more months.”
“I didn’t know, I am so sorry,”
“Well, it left me incapable of having children. And then Robert, the bastard, walked out. So, I thought bloody great and devoted myself to my career with the odd “dalliance” along the way. And I climbed the ladder pretty successfully. What about you?”
“Finals – I managed a First….. but I suppose that was because the best distraction was gone and the rugby only took up the Michaelmas term.” Paul smiled at Jeanette knowingly, “Then I thought to myself, I fancy teaching as I’d done that whilst abroad on my year out. I did my CertEd and went off to teach at a good private school in Dorset for three years but got bored. One evening, I saw an advert for a modern languages teacher based at a private international school in Tours – so I thought, what the hell, I’ve no real ties here as my sister had gone to Switzerland and I couldn’t get on with my parents – and I applied. I got the job and off I went…..”
“Wasn’t it – or isn’t it – odd living full-time in France?” Jeanette asked. “After all, I’ve travelled – still do – a huge amount mainly in Europe, but I’ve never thought I’d feel really settled except in England. That said, I’ve never had a reason to consider it.”
“No, not really,” Paul answered smiling. “I knew the culture fairly well, I spoke the language and I was pretty rootless. Besides teaching in France is different to an English boarding school. One has a bit more time to make friends, be social. I had time to play rugby again so I had a good social life that way too.”
“Then, since you’re bound to wonder,” he paused, his voice starting to crack, “I too got married – another teacher called Nadine. She taught at a school across the city in Tours. I met her at a quatorze juillet dance and we married eighteen months later. I think her parents were a little worried about her marrying a Brit but in the end I won them over. My parents, well they said nothing about me marrying a French girl whatever they thought, but at least they came to the wedding and managed to stop themselves being an embarrassment to Nadine’s parents.”
“So you’re married then?”
“No, Nadine was killed in a hit and run on her way home from work two years after we got married. ” Paul went silent for a minute, gazing at the floor, his eyes watering. “It’s a painful memory, the policeman coming to the door…..”
“She was pregnant with twins….. I found out it was twins after the accident…..”
Jeanette put her hand on his arm.
“I’m so sorry,” she answered gently as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Shall we go and sit in the garden as it’s pretty warm this evening. Then you can tell me as much or as little as you like and I can do the same.”
She picked up a wrap and grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses. Paul followed her up the stairs admiring her still trim outline under her dress. They sat in a quiet corner of the garden, gently bathed in warm moonlight, sipped the wine and talked about their lives and experiences since leaving.
“Are you happy in France?” Jeanette asked after a while. “You sound fairly settled. But the loss of your wife must have hurt.”
“Oh yes. I’m settled. Of course, I miss Nadine – and the twins – and sometimes think of what could have been but the pain has got less with the years. But it was really to get away from Tours and the memories that drove me to look for a job away from the capital. So the job in Auch came up and I love it. I live in a small hamlet on the edge of the city. A really nice house with views over the countryside and a swimming pool. I had this small barn in the garden done up to make a two bed apartment which my sister and her husband and their children can use in the summer and I occasionally let it out to people I know. I’ve made lots of friends and these days I help with rugby coaching – Auch is a big rugby town – but I’m a bit too old to play and veterans rugby in France can be – well – let’s say, rough and tough! It’s a really civilised lifestyle and I enjoy it – and not far from Toulouse. But what about you? I couldn’t imagine living in a large city anymore.”
Jeanette sipped her wine and thought hard. She was quiet for a while.
“Do you know, I don’t know….. I’ve never ever really stopped to think and answer that really. I live in Fulham, have a nice flat in a reasonably quiet road, have a really interesting but busy job, I have a good circle of friends, the odd boyfriend – but nothing too serious – I’m well paid, I travel a lot. I’m just busy busy and I mostly enjoy it.”
“Yes,” Paul gently interrupted her, “But are you settled….? Do you really enjoy it? What do you do for time off, to relax, at Christmas or Easter holidays, in the summer. You must take holidays. Or does the work enjoy you rather than you enjoy the work?”
He sensed Jeanette’s discomfort at his questions.
“Oh, I go to visit my relatives or friends. Summer holidays, I normally go with friends for a week or two……But now you ask, I suppose I’m on a treadmill of my own making.”
She stopped and Paul realised that her shoulders were shaking gently in the moonlight. He took her wrap, placed it round her shoulders and have her a gentle hug. Jeanette leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Paul, do you ever think of me these days?”
“Yes, quite frequently actually…..” He squeezed her shoulder gently. “But can I ask you the same in reverse.”
“Yes, often. Can I ask a personal question?”
“Of course, what is it?”
“Do you have a girlfriend hidden away out in France?”
Paul burst into a loud chuckle. “No, I don’t. Not currently…. I had a girlfriend but that finished over a year ago.”
Jeanette gave him a peck on the cheek then snuggled into his shoulder. Paul kissed the top of her head gently and then squeezed her thinking how much he’d really liked Jeanette when they’d been together and how he’d missed her over the years even if only at times subconsciously.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Jeanette asked after a while
“Getting the train to Heathrow for a flight back to Toulouse as I have school on Monday,” Paul answered. “Would have flown to Bristol or Stansted but I needed a Sunday flight back.”
“Have you time for breakfast in the Market? Just like old times…..” Jeanette turned her face to him with a beseeching smile.
Paul looked at her face then answered, “Of course. And, of course, if you ever fancy trying a holiday in the south west of France or just popping in for a short stay……”
“I think that’s a lovely idea. But where would I stay?”
“Oh, I recommend Auch as a good centre – a private house preferably somewhere with a private swimming pool.”
“Is that an invitation?” Jeanette asked very quietly.
“Anytime you like,” Paul replied softly then kissed her for the first time in years, savouring her response, gentle at first then more passionate.
“Time for bed.” Paul said very quietly after ten minutes or so. “What time shall I see you tomorrow? I need to get the train at half eleven.”
“Half eight?”
“Suits me…. Let’s meet in the Lodge,” Paul whispered.
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The 4th July, at L’Abris, and Paul poured two glasses of the lovely local chilled Cotes de Gascogne for himself and his guest before taking them out on a tray with some tapenade and rillettes de porc on bread he’d bought from the boulangerie on way back from the airport. Jeanette was standing out on the patio by the pool in her enticing sun dress and straw hat enjoying the quiet of the garden and the evening sunshine and surveying the surrounding farmland.
“Salut” Paul toasted her, “it’s so lovely to see you here.”
“Well, I think it’s just idyllic,” Jeanette replied smiling at him, ”so peaceful and beautiful. I can quite see why you love it here. I didn’t know this existed – so different to Paris or one of the big cities.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, then Paul said,
“I’m cooking supper which we can eat out here. Then tomorrow I thought we’d go into Auch and have dinner at a really nice restaurant I know. Perhaps in a few days we could drive over to Tarbes and the Pyrenees. Otherwise, there’s the pool here…..”
“Don’t worry, Paul,” Jeanette replied, “this is so relaxing. I’m quite happy just doing very little for a few days. I think I could just truly relax here.”
She turned her face to Paul and they just smiled broadly at each other, exchanged a kiss and gingerly held hands.

March 2017 entry – Number 92

I don’t know quite what it was about the young lady on the fish counter that sucked me in. Glum shop assistants tend to frighten me, but then her surly pout had a definite allure. Perhaps it was also the way she used her knife. Firm, when she was swinging it down to the counter, albeit not with the brutish force the guys at the market used. Soft when she was filleting. Tender, when she was scraping out innards or hosing out all the muck that got stuck on.

There was the intriguing fact she didn’t wear gloves but also didn’t want to touch the fish with any more fingertips than were necessary. The discrete way she brought the back of her hand to cover her nose when she needed to. The casual way she was snacking on a bag of prawns, slipping rather than cracking their heads off, when I saw her leaning against the back wall of the supermarket on her break the previous day. The cold way she had ignored me when I tried to nod a hello to her then.

I suppose I could never quite describe exactly what it was. When you’re a young man, your brain is just putting together hundreds of cues and impressions before you form your opinion. Isn’t that how it works? Starting in one or two places, you say? Well, the slim outlines underneath the white coat that seemed a size or two too large for her appeared worth knowing. But what I really wanted to know was her mind. I had an urge to know how she lived, what she dreamed of, what she watched on TV, whether she ate grated tomato on a toasted baguette for breakfast like everyone did outside that little cafe.

She pulled a dripping hake out of an icy bucket to show me. It had the same sad expression in its eyes all dead fish seem to have.

She flashed a semi-smile upon seeing me licking my lips.

“That looks delicious!” I said. “Too many chips at my hotel. Not good,” I added, patting my stomach.

She brought her finger to her mouth in a mock vomiting motion and I smiled.

She turned, unusually, to chop the hake on the worktop opposite the counter that had the weighing scales on. That meant she had her back to me. I felt sure her face was smiling away out of sight. Her arms and elbows seemed to be lighter and looser as she went to work on providing me with 500 grams.

She ran the knife over the edge of the counter and cast it to one side, having decided it wasn’t sharp enough. She grabbed another.

There must be some adage said somewhere and sometime about never asking a young lady out with a knife in her hand. Clearly I was under the influence of the holiday spirit and the sun, but again, something about the moment I couldn’t possibly quantify seemed perfect.

I didn’t allow myself to back out on seeing that her glumness had returned when she span around to present the fish in a lazily tied plastic bag with the price sticker flapping off the side.

“Anything more?” she said in a muffled tone, clearly ashamed of either her English, her job or the world.

“Yes!” I said, clearing my throat, and calming myself, having been taken aback by the emphatic start to my answer. “I’m doing a Spanish course at home in England and I thought, well, it could be really nice to meet someone Spanish here to talk to. Provided you might be perhaps interested in meeting for a café con leche one afternoon?”

She looked at me blankly and tossed her knife down into a mackerel’s stomach, where it stood with its tip wedged into a hole it had pierced in the skin.

“Maybe if I could take your number?” I asked, reasoning that I could check a few words on the internet before composing a text message to better explain myself.

“I no understand,” she said.

She swapped an apologetic glance with an old woman who was standing impatiently at my side, admiring the salmon with her green paper ticket held in her fingers.

I could feel a bead of sweat at the back of my neck trickling down with the help of the powerful fan buzzing from the ceiling.

“Numero” I said, “de telefono,” moving my hand to my ears to gesture taking a call.

The same blank expression. Was my pronunciation really that terrible?

“Look” I said, holding out my paper ticket to her with the number 92 on.

“Noventa dos,” she said, reading the number out to me in Spanish.

She looked to her side as across waddled Carlos, the barrel-shaped man with a crooked nose and sweaty cheeks who worked on the cheese counter.

Why wasn’t she wearing a name tag too? If only I could put a name to the memory now, that might make it more wholesome. I suppose at the time it just added to her enigmatic charm.

Carlos grunted something inaudible that could have been “problema” then he stooped down to put his arm around the young lady on the fish counter.

Were they? Surely not? She was a beauty, and Carlos, as well as being three times the size, was at least 15 years older than her.

I heard the slow patter of flip slops interrupt the calm sound of a Spanish pop hit behind me.

“Taylor!” It was Duffers.

I turned around, alarmed.

He had a giant red bag of crisps in his left hand, while with his right hand he tried to adjust the laces on his brightly patterned swimming shorts.

“Did you find any beer yet? The United match is starting in ten minutes.”

“Oh,” I said, “no I was just – “

“Is that…fish you’ve got there?” he said, a grin spreading from cheek to cheek as he asked.

“Oh, well, it’s just a bit of hake, I thought that – “

“Put it back! We’ll get some burgers by the pool in a bit,” he said.

“Sorry about my friend, he’s a bit crazy,” he said, laughing, as I placed the white bag with six euro 70 worth of hake back on the counter.

Then I heard a buzz as the number on the electronic display above the scales turned to 93.

The Snowglobe

When Laura and Pete were taken up to the room on the second floor of the hotel, they noticed how light and airy it was with a grand view over the village and the resort and the snow-covered mountains close behind with the ski runs leading down almost into the local streets. It felt lovely and warm.

“Here you can actually anticipate the ski-ing from your view when you wake up.” the manager announced before he left them, “The room faces east so you will get the morning light.”

They were putting clothes away in drawers when Laura discovered the snowglobe in a bottom draw within the wardrobe along with the spare pillows. She took it gleefully,

“Look at this….. I wonder why it was stuffed away in the drawer. It’s so pretty…….”

And, Pete had to agree, although it was larger than most examples they’d seen, and required two hands to shake it, which Laura did stirring up a whirl of snowflakes which settled to reveal a mountain, a tiny village at its foot and some miniature people bustling around. Laura blew the dust off it and set it on what was obviously a former mantelpiece opposite the foot of the bed.

“It’s lovely,” she commented. “I wonder why it was hidden away.”

She looked curiously at it and then they left to go for a walk and drinks and dinner downstairs.

They spent the next two days ski-ing and enjoying themselves and paid little attention to the new addition to the mantelpiece. Then, coming back on the second day, the snowglobe was missing only for Laura to re-discover it in its original hiding place and restore it to the mantelpiece. This rigmarole was repeated over the next two days after which Laura declared,

“The chambermaids must be moving it, but I don’t understand why they can’t leave it alone. It’s so lovely and it looks just like the village here. I think I’ll ask the manager.”

And so she did when they went down for dinner. Herr Altmeier looked at Laura with what Pete thought was an evasive look before he answered, rather abruptly, Pete thought,

“Do you mean one of those models of a winter scene in a plastic covering? The toys that you shake and they create fake snow that settles? Ja, we had one but I do not know where it went – perhaps it was put in the drawers in your room. We are a modern progressive hotel and we don’t want old-fashioned children’s toys on display. I will speak to the room staff about it.”

Later, over a drink in the bar, Pete commented to Laura,
“If Herr Altmeier is so dead against “children’s toys” as he puts it, why is the globe being put away so regularly in the same old place? Why not just sell it off or give it to a children’s home.…”

On the Friday, the weather turned grey and overcast with flurries of snow and the couple decided not to go ski-ing but to explore the village and its shops. Before they went out, Laura realised she’d forgotten her sunglasses and went back to fetch them from the room where she encountered the maid.

“Gruss Gott,” the maid nodded and Laura went to fetch her sunglasses then realised the snowdome had been moved again.

“Excuse me, but where is the snowglobe?” Laura enquired.

“Entschuldigung?” the maid enquired.

“The model of the village, with the artificial snow…. Sorry, I don’t speak German,” Laura replied rather embarrassed.

“Ah, the model….” the maid answered in passable English looking rather embarrassed. “We are ordered to remove it from sight as it does not fit with image of hotel. Herr Altmeier’s orders….. He would get rid of it but it has been here for many, many years so I and the other staff keep it hidden as we do not think it proper to remove it. It belonged to the family that owned the original inn here back in the olden times.”

And with that she scurried off into the bathroom and Laura retreated to the lobby to rejoin Pete from whence they essayed forth for a day’s shopping and a nice lunch. All the while the sky turned darker and the snow continued to fall, although mainly over the higher peaks of the mountain.

“The weather isn’t so good?” Pete had questioned the waiter at lunch.

“Nein….. Is abnormal….. very abnormal….. Snow on the mountain tops but not here in village.” He seemed to shiver and moved on.

Later that afternoon, when the couple came back to the hotel, Laura took the snowglobe out of the drawer in the wardrobe and noticed a change in the globe itself. It had become very dark and when Laura shook it, the snow hardly stirred settling to one side of the globe on what appeared to be the representation of the mountain overlooking the village. The whole scene had become foreboding as, indeed, had the weather in the locality which seemed eerily to be be following the changes in the globe. By the time the couple went down to dinner the night outside seemed inky black and less activity than usual to be seen through the windows.The main street, usually thronged with locals and holiday makers was virtually deserted

“It seems very quiet in the village out there tonight,” Pete observed to the maitre d’hote.

“Ja. Unfortunately, the weather is not so good tonight. I think we may have a very heavy snowfall and people are a bit nervous.”

“Nervous of what?” Pete replied. “You need snow, after all, for the ski-ing.”

“Ja, but could be a little bit too heavy, perhaps.” The maitre d’h looked nervous. “Would you like your table? We have fewer than expected guests tonight and it would be good to close the kitchen a bit early. A reward for our loyal staff…..”

Dinner was served much quicker than usual with the staff scurrying around seemingly anxious to finish the dinner service and to tidy up the restaurant and lay up for breakfast as quickly as possible. By ten o’clock everything was quiet. Laura and Pete looked out of the front of the hotel and everything seemed so deathly quiet in the village which was unusual, so they retired for an early night.

On getting back to their room, Laura looked at the snowdome and realised it had changed again with the whole village scene in darkness but with the “snow” roiling away up on the mountain.

“You know, I think the village is frightened of something,” Laura said nervously. “The scenes in the dome have been getting more and more unusual today, just as the village has gone unusually quiet.”

Pete peered at the dome curiously and, after thinking, he said quietly,

“Just a rather spooky thought….. Is the dome is predicting something and the villagers know it. I think this snowdome is more than just a toy….. And maybe Herr Altmeier knows that and that’s why he tries to hide it.”

“What do you mean, more than just a toy?” Laura looked concerned.

“Maybe, it’s predictive….. Magical somehow. Let’s face it, pretty though it is, it’s very old and it’s a bit bigger than most snowdomes. And it seems to represent the village pretty accurately in a funny sort of way.”

Pete strode to the back window and looked up towards the mountain top – but nothing. Just inky blackness. He went back to the snowglobe and picked it up, looking curiously at it. He turned it over revealing a brass plate with indecipherable writing on it which he showed to Laura. When he turned it back over, nothing had changed.

“You know, Pete,” I’m scared she said. “Something’s going to happen.”

“Let’s go to bed,” Pete said, “we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

About four o’clock in the morning, they were aroused from their fitful sleep by a huge roaring sound and the building shaking as if an earthquake were in progress. After a few minutes the roaring and shaking stopped, to be replaced by icy stillness punctuated by the sounds of odd crying or wailing outside. Pete leapt out of bed and peered into the darkness as there were no lights to be seen anywhere. He felt his way back to their bedside table and located his torch before going to look out of the window.

“OMG,” he exclaimed, ”I think there’s been an avalanche. Can’t see much except masses of snow up to the first floor, I think….. Some people emerging but really too dark…. But I think best to get dressed perhaps in ski gear as I think it could get cold. Let’s see if we can help……”

They quickly discovered there was no electricity so they dressed as best they could and then made their way gingerly down the stairs in – along with other guests – to the lower floors to find the hotel mostly safe – although the force of the avalanche had stoved in some windows and doors to let icy snow in. Herr Altmeier was surveying the scene using a lantern with some live-in staff, including the maid Laura had met.

“Can we helpl?” Pete asked.

“Nein…. Danke…. We have to wait to be dug out but it could be a while. The emergency services will be busy soon lower down the village. The smaller dwellings will suffer most. Let us have some coffee whilst we wait. I think the butane cookers still work. We cannot go out at this moment.”

After a while drinking coffee, making small talk and warming themselves round a fire they managed to light, Laura asked,

“Herr Altmeier….. Tell me honestly about the snowglobe.”

Altmeier regarded her with horror.

“Please, tell me…. Or you,” she glanced at the maid. “There’s something about it…..”

After a silence he looked at the maid and when she nodded, he began the story.

“Many years ago this hotel was an inn for the locals and the odd rare traveller. Up here I don’t suppose they got many of those before ski-ing took off. In the seventeenth century, the inn was owned by the Schwarzer family – yes the name has significance – as they all were reputed to be of the devil’s kind. They were known as sorcerers, as well as innkeepers, but one – Hugo Schwarzer – was reputed to make objects that could foretell the future, although they were almost all lost in the twentieth century.”

“Almost all…..?” Laura cut in, perhaps sensing where the conversation was going.

“Ja, there was a snowglobe that could predict the near future. It has predicted several disasters to befall the village – rock falls, harvest failures and avalanches….. But never ever good things. We have tried to put it away but somehow it could not leave the site of the inn. We have given it away several times but it has always managed to return.”

“So what is the strange writing on the brass plate on the back?” Pete asked.

“No-one knows,” Altmeier replied. “We believe it is probably some cursed magicians’ script.”

“Right, that’s it. Enough…..” Pete announced determinedly and marched upstairs taking an ice-pick from the hall with him.

Once in the room, he seized the globe, opened the window and attacked it with the pick. The glass covering was thick but as soon as he began his assault the globe started to whirl with a dark malignant presence, but Pete kept up the assault until the glass cracked and finally broke. With that a black apparition with evil yellow eyes mushroomed in front of Pete until Pete drove the icepick into the shadowy figure which gave out a bone-chilling, ear-piercing shriek then vanished into the cold crisp air of the valley.

“What was that terrible shriek? It frightened the life out of us,” Laura asked when Pete returned downstairs.

“The ghost of Hugo Schwarzer going to meet his doom,” Pete replied. “Herr Altmeier, a large brandy please.”