The Last Christmas Day

By Alan Cadman

 

a shot of JD

I’ve only been invited because Shirley died recently and I’m a relative. The contents of my will must also be very important to them. I’ve decided it will be the last Christmas Day I’ll spend with this lot. Shirley and I never had children; we used to enjoy the festivities differently to the rest of the family. We indulged in wild parties year after year; drink, drugs and rock ’n’ roll. I hate being old Uncle Jimmy now, propped up with a glass of sherry and a stale mince pie. None of my money will be going to these strangers.

Beside the Seaside

By Alan Cadman

strawberry milkshake

Forty years had passed since Bill first ran along that seaside promenade. As he neared a taxi booking office, odours of vomit and urine lingered on the pavement. It used to be an ice-cream parlour; his favourite was strawberry.

             In front of the old amusement park, a sign defaced with graffiti proclaimed ‘Land for Sale’. Golden chips sprinkled with vinegar, after a ride on the Waltzer, remained fresh in his mind.  Was the place called ‘Private Shop’ really where he got his bucket and spade from? Fat splashes of rain fell on him. Bill shivered then headed for his car.

One of Those

Alan Cadman

Sparkling spring water

 

‘I hope you’re not one of those vegetarians, Rob.’

            ‘I didn’t say I was. I’m just reading the menu, happen to have reached that page. What do you mean by one of those vegetarians?’

            ‘Well it’s not normal, we’re carnivores. Our teeth are designed to eat meat.’

            ‘Gemma, I’ve never noticed that yours resemble those of a lion, tiger, or wolf. Our first working lunch together isn’t going down very well, is it?’

            ‘Anyway, where do they get their—’

            ‘Oh that old chestnut, “where do they get their protein from?” Google it.’

            ‘Are you a vegetarian?’

            ‘No, I’m vegan.’

The Longest Drive Home

Alan Cadman

 

Water

As Ray approached the water cooler, he heard two colleagues chatting. ‘Have you seen Ray? I need his help.’

            ‘No. He might be sorting out a few problems elsewhere. You’ll find him soon. He always works late on Fridays.’

            ‘Good old Ray.’

            Ray cringed. He’d had enough of being known as “good old Ray”. He waited for them to leave and phoned his wife. ‘Jean, I’ll be—’

            ‘You’ll be working three hours over tonight instead of the usual two?’

            ‘No I won’t. I’ll be home in less than thirty minutes.’ He heard muffled voices and the front door closing.

Ain’t She Sweet

Alan Cadman

 

A bottle of Coca-Cola with a paper straw

I loosen my collar; I’m going to be late. The city is heaving with lunchtime traffic. Promising me a mind blowing experience, she’d asked me to meet her in a converted cellar. I descend the narrow steps as fast as I can. Hideous noises grow louder. It’s not what I expected.   

      As I enter, the place is crammed with excited teenagers; condensation dripping down walls. All eyes are focused on four young men. She squeezes my arm and assures me that, in the near future, they will be world famous.

      I’m not impressed and reply, ‘Who, exactly, are The Beatles?’

Tha Last Fight

By Alan Cadman

 

a jar of porter

On Woking Common an eager crowd is baying for blood. Sovereigns are being exchanged in a flurry between the Victorian gentry. Tom looks up at his younger opponent, who has fire in his feet and iron in his fists. If he can land a lucky punch, just the one, he might beat him. Peelers are nowhere to be seen; the fight is on. Filling his lungs with the damp dawn air, Tom loosens his fogle. He steps up to the scratch and raises his fists. He knows that, one way or another, this is going to be his last fight.

Strangers in the Seasonal Night

Alan Cadman

 

Strong Black Coffee

It only happens when it’s dark. I can sense they are out there, but never hear them. This puzzles me; we have a squeaky gate in front of our house that opens out onto a long drive laid with crunchy gravel. A friend of mine is a crime prevention expert; she thinks it’s an excellent idea. I remember her saying, 'They don’t like to make any kind of noise. In and out, as quick as they can, that’s their policy.'

            It works well when our ‘postie’ arrives. Hinges squeal then gravel crunches as intended. When the letterbox flap is raised, cards and letters bounce off the mat; this is followed by a thud that seems louder than a door banging shut.

            So how come they are so elusive? Some December nights I’ve even peered through the bedroom window, a mug of strong black coffee in hand, to see if I can spot them. I’ve seen cats jumping fences and a fox skulking round a wheelie bin, even a badger scurrying across the lawn, but never that lot. Is this the modern way that some of our neighbours post their Christmas cards?

O Come All Ye Faithful

Alan Cadman

 

A sip of red wine

How long will it be, I wonder, before Jingle Bells is regarded as a carol? Only the other day a young lad, of primary school age, sniggered as he confronted me. ‘Is Santa and Jesus the same person, mate?’ 

I wasn’t surprised at all by his comment; I get asked all sorts of diverse questions in my line of work. What did astonish me was the way he called me mate in such an impertinent way. I just replied, ‘Have a nice Christmas,’ because I didn’t really know the truthful answer any more.

When I was in my teens, and of a more cynical nature, I used to delight in finding errors in the well-known story. I would deride the tale about shepherds tending their flocks on that night.  I asked my friends, ‘Have you ever been to Bethlehem in December? Let me tell you, from experience, it is very cold.’ 

Obvious facts would be punctuated with my opinions. ‘The climate hasn’t changed there for at least two thousand years. If the couple did go there it would probably have been in early autumn. At that time the temperature could have reached up to thirty degrees centigrade. That’s when sheep would have been on hills with their shepherds watching over them.’ I really did think I was the clever one.

As I grew older I became far less sceptical and began to bond more and more with the Christian faith. Now, in my mature years, I am questioning my beliefs. For most of my adult life I have always liked to be part of something special on Christmas Eve. I invite people round to my “house” to celebrate with a sip of wine and some music. Just turn up before midnight; the more the merrier has always been my motto. 

After much deliberation, especially how Christmas is valued today, I have decided that tonight is the last time I am ever going to be involved in this tradition. Not only that, I fear it will be my last time as a Christian as well. I finger my collar; look down at the vestments I am wearing. The pure white of my surplice, over the black cassock, gives me an unwanted air of superiority. 

My mouth goes dry as I hear myself reciting from Luke, chapter 2, verses ten to eleven. Everyone is now standing; organist ready to strike the first chord. I think of the young lad who asked me about Jesus and Santa recently. I bite my lip, as I nearly announce Jingle Bells instead of hymn number 196, O Come All Ye Faithful.

* * *

About the author 

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

Waterloo Sunset

Alan Cadman

 

a celebratory glass of champagne

I’d never heard of the credit crunch. It reminds me of a proverb about a fool and his money . . . hello, meet the fool.

Late evening July sun is setting over Waterloo Bridge. There are magnificent views. I can see the London Eye, Royal Festival Hall and the Houses of Parliament.

If I rest my elbows on this parapet, and balance on my toes, I’ll be able to lean over and gaze into the river. Interfering do-gooders, what are you staring at? 

Hypnotised by old Father Thames, I plunge into darkness. I’ll soon be celebrating death’s quick release.

About the author 

Alan has been writing short stories for eleven years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and was a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines. He has also been published in CaféLit anthologies.

Let it Snow

Alan Cadman

 

JD and Coke

Henry usually hated the white stuff, bad for business, but not if it fell on Christmas Eve. Last minute shoppers drifted in and out of the tube station as he strapped on his guitar. He knew if he played seasonal songs, with added snow as a bonus, more money would be gifted to him. He glanced towards the leaden sky. Bring it on. This could be pay day.

            Not everyone was full of good cheer. An elderly man, in a well-worn overcoat, jabbed at him with a walking stick. ‘You bloody scrounger, why don’t you get a proper job like I had to?’

            Henry ignored him, rubbed the palms of his hands together, sang something about the weather outside being so frightful. He carried on with a few more cheesy tunes before switching to an old rock ballad. 

‘Oh, I love this song. It takes me right back to when I was a teenager,’

            Shocked by the enthusiastic voice, Henry nearly fell off his fold-up stool. At any other time of the year, commuters didn’t normally stop to make complimentary comments. Most of them hurried past, turned their heads, or dropped some loose change. This one remained in the same position, with a puzzled look spreading across her face.

            In front of him stood a middle-aged woman; laden with bags of various colours. She moved closer to him. ‘You sing it well. Your voice is so like the original, just a little deeper perhaps.’

            Henry gave her his best smile; this one should be good for a couple of quid. 

            The woman snapped her fingers as if she had discovered something remarkable. ‘You are him. Those blue eyes of yours will always have the same twinkle.’ 

            He stopped playing and scratched three days of white stubble on his chin. ‘You’re getting me mixed up with someone else, love, and no I’m not Santa Claus.’ 

            ‘I remember seeing you on Top of the Pops in the nineteen seventies. You came on last after Rod Stewart and David Essex. Number one in the charts for two weeks you were.’

            He remained silent, twisted a tuning peg.

            ‘I had pictures of you on my bedroom wall. I bought all your records until you vanished off the radar, so to speak.’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘I remember that Christmas concert you did. I’d loved to have gone. I never got to see you in the flesh . . . well, not until now of course.’

            Henry stuffed his hands into his pockets.

            ‘I’ve always wanted your autograph.’ She found one of her till receipts then fished around in her pockets for a pen. ‘Can you sign this for me, please?’

            He sighed, took them from her, and scribbled something down.

            ‘That’s your real name. When I watched you on the telly, you weren’t called that.’ She gave him another scrap of paper.

            He tried again. 

            ‘I knew it. You’re the one and only, Bobby Balsamo.’ While pressing a ten pound note into his hand, she frowned and peered closely at his face. ‘What happened, Bobby?’ 

            He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I just got caught up in a rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Some can handle it, others . . . well, you know.’ When she pulled out her phone, he added, ‘Please, no selfies.’

            ‘OK, no problem, but will you do me a favour?’

            He raised his eyebrows. Even though he hadn’t started playing his guitar again, a few more coins rattled by his feet. He mouthed a ‘thank you’ towards a man who had made the donation; grateful he had more compassion than that miserable one earlier.   

    

            ‘Bobby,’ the woman said, ‘will you play your number one single again just for me?’

            ‘Haven’t you got any more shopping to do?’

            ‘Please, it will be the best Christmas present ever.’ 

            He shifted in his seat; avoided looking at her. A few flakes of snow descended; sticking on anything in their way. The grimy cityscape was about to turn white.

            ‘Bobby?’

            For the first time in nearly forty years, he no longer felt like Henry Smith. Snow began falling heavier. Umbrellas were raised; scarves wrapped tighter. Bobby Balsamo stood up and looked straight at his audience of one. He hesitated then strummed the opening bars of his most famous song.

* * *

About the author: 

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

Lonely this Christmas

                                                                                                        

Alan Cadman

 

a cup of Earl Grey

She ran her fingers across the only Christmas card on the mantelpiece. After picking it up she read out loud the spidery inscription, ‘To my dearest wife, Marjorie, Merry Christmas from your loving husband, Albert.’ The edges had curled a little, but it still looked in good condition; considering it was ten years old.

            ‘He was a good man, my Albert,’ She said, ‘I miss him terribly. Heart attack . . . it was so sudden.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘He was strong as well . . . who could have known?’ 

After opening the sitting room curtains, she peered outside. ‘Rupert,’ she called, ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any snow for us this year.’ 

Rupert stretched, blinked his feline eyes, and led her to his empty bowl in the kitchen. She wagged a finger towards him. ‘You’re such a greedy cat. I’ve only just fed you . . . at least I think I have.’ She opened another tin. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time.’ She bent down, stroked his head. He purred and rubbed against her hand. 

            Shuffling back to the fireside, her thoughts drifted to her only surviving relative; her daughter. Well, Australia is a long way from here and things do get lost in the post. Susan phones me every Christmas. All right, it’s me who always rings her, but she is a very busy woman.

            ‘Anyway, enough of that, here’s our presents. You go first.’ The cat yawned, curled up in a ball, as she tore off the colourful paper and pushed a tin of red salmon in front of him.

            ‘You do test my patience, Ruby . . . I mean, Rupert.’ She shook her head. ‘Did I just call you Ruby? Of course I didn’t. I might be old, but I’ve still got all of my faculties. In a year or so, I hope to receive a birthday card from the Queen.’ She glanced at the mantelpiece. ‘It would be even nicer if she’d sent me a Christmas card.’

            She rubbed her hands. ‘I’ll open my gift now.’ Feigning surprise, she clutched a shiny black tin to her chest. ‘Earl Grey, my favourite.’ 

            Her eyes widened at the sound of a vehicle approaching her bungalow. ‘Oh, Rupert, it seems like we’ve got visitors.’ She twitched the net curtains. Her shoulders slumped. ‘It’s for next door. They have their groceries delivered in a van.’ She scratched her head. ‘Surely there aren’t any deliveries on Christmas day?’

            She drummed her fingers on the window sill. ‘Of course, silly old me, the big day is tomorrow . . . or is it the day after? I’ll have to wrap up those presents again, just like I did yesterday.’

            Rupert padded along the hallway. The rattle of a cat flap echoed around the room. Marjorie held a new sheet of festive paper and a roll of Sellotape in her hands. ‘Don’t worry, let’s be positive. We’ve still got it all to look forward to again.’

* * *

About the author

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

Christmas Bells

Alan Cadman

Double Brandy

Charlie pushed his empty supermarket trolley to line up with all the others. He blew on his hands and hurried back to his car. The steady flow of evening traffic hummed in the background, but he knew he had enough time.

            ‘You won’t believe what happened to me just now, never been so embarrassed in all my life,’ a young woman said, as she opened the boot of her Honda right next to him.   

      

Charlie nodded. ‘It can get hectic, especially this time of year.’

            ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever done it. I was running late, still am in fact.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Everything’s going to be ruined now.’

            He retrieved a stray box of mince pies from by her feet and handed it to her. ‘I’m a little confused. What happened?’

            ‘It’s my daughter, she’s in a Christmas play tonight and I’m going to miss it now because of that person.’  

            ‘If it’s any help I can give you a hand to load your car, then we can both be on our way, Ms . . .’

            ‘Thanks, that’s very kind. I’m Carol, you are?’

            ‘Charlie.’ He scanned the over-loaded trolley and lifted some of the items out.

           Outside the store entrance a group of campanologists rattled their charity collection boxes. Charlie almost dropped a chocolate Yule log when a peal of bells cracked the air.    

        

‘I only parked it there for about a minute,’ Carol shouted over “O little Town of Bethlehem” He nearly asked what, where, but grabbed a bottle of Prosecco instead and passed it to her.

            ‘Sorry, I meant I left my trolley in front of the freezers while I went to the Deli counter. I had to queue at the check-out for ages. To top it all, young Stacey on the till thought it very funny when I found a frozen turkey, a pack of sausages and a pork fillet underneath my Christmas crackers. She knows I’m a vegetarian.’

            Charlie’s face reddened. He always got angry when people blocked the aisles with their trollies, then marched off in a different direction. He’d decided, half an hour ago, to teach someone a lesson. How could he have known it would turn out to be Carol? He held his hands up. ‘Look, it’s the season of goodwill and all that, it was me.’

            ‘It was you, what?’

            ‘It was me who messed about with your groceries in the store.’

            Her face turned more crimson than his. She placed her hands on her hips. ‘And you’ve got the nerve to pretend to help me? Why don’t you go and—’

            ‘Is everything all right with you two?’ a man in a Father Christmas outfit said. 

            Charlie ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Oh go ring your bells somewhere else, mate.’

            Carol glared at Charlie. ‘Are you still invading my personal space?’

            He fumbled in his pockets, but couldn’t find his Samsung. ‘Have you got a phone? I need to call someone right now.’

            ‘Yeah I’ve got one, but you’re the last person I’d lend it to.’

            Charlie spread his hands. ‘Please, I’ll only be on for—’

            ‘No chance!’

            He closed his eyes. ‘I’ve just realised, it wouldn’t make any difference if you did. I can’t remember her number. It’s stored in my mobile. She’ll think I’ve stood her up. It would’ve been our first date as well.’

            ‘As if I care, it’s all down to you I’ve missed my daughter’s play. I was going to put on a lovely after show finger buffet . . . with Bucks Fizz as well.’

            ‘I think you’re overreacting. Don’t blame me because you can’t manage your own time.’

            ‘Overreacting? You don’t know anything about me at—’

            ‘We wish you a merry Christmas,’ shouted the man in a red suit and false white beard. The jangling of coins started up again.

            Carol glowered at Charlie. ‘Thanks for spoiling my evening.’ After slamming down the boot lid of her car she added, ‘I hope you have a rotten Christmas.’

            Charlie climbed into his Nissan and powered down the window. ‘I hope you have a miserable one as well.’

            As he revved up the engine “Ding Dong Merrily on High” chimed around the car park. He shook his fist. ‘And the same goes to you lot over there . . . with bloody bells on!’

* * *

About the author 

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

Wishing for Santa

Alan Cadman

 

A glass of sherry

I still cling to precious memories of that magical time when I was a little girl. On Christmas Eve, just before bedtime, my parents would remind me to leave Santa Claus a glass of sherry and a mince pie by the fireplace.

            One year I wrote to him and asked for a doll; the one with long blonde tresses that I’d set my heart on for months. I thought he’d forget, but of course it was in my room when I blinked my eyes open the following day.

            My mother and father passed away a few years ago; I’m now forty years of age. I still have that toy, which I simply named Dolly. She maybe threadbare, hair thinning, but I’m clutching her close to my chest at the moment. My bedside clock is displaying 1.30 December 25. 

            The front door slams against its frame. I tremble under the duvet; touch my bruised face. He stumbles upstairs singing the first line of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”, over and over again. I kiss Dolly on her head.

            The bedroom door crashes wide open. I wish it was Santa standing in front of me instead of my husband. I wait, knife in hand. Whatever happens next, I’m certain only one of us will see the break of dawn this Christmas morning.

* * *

About the author: 

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

George’s Independence Day

George’s Independence Day

 

Alan Cadman

 

instant coffee from a vending machine

 

George sensed everyone was watching him. He risked a glance around the room. A middle-aged man, in front of him, struggled with an automated checkout device. To his left, a young woman tapped on a keyboard. Other library users were selecting books; reading newspapers or magazines. He shook his head. No one displayed any interest in him after all. 

He’d been going there for as long as he could remember. Once a month, on his way home from junior school, he’d run into the building; grab a Just William, Famous Five, or something about football. During his teenage years it became Haynes car manuals or vinyl LPs to record on cassette.

George gained more confidence, propelled his wheelchair towards crime fiction. Pride prevented him asking for assistance, but he was lucky. The latest Peter Robinson was at waist height. Balancing the detective novel on his knees, he also spotted a Rankin he hadn’t read before. 

He remembered the abundance of reference books upstairs. Conscious of the new open staircase and original stone steps confronting him, he wondered if there was a lift for service users. He mustered enough courage to ask an assistant, smiled at her positive reply. 

He looked forward to browsing through pages of art, local history and music. Earlier, his wife had wheeled him to the disabled entrance. At his insistence, when the door slid open, she left him there. It was his first visit alone since being diagnosed with a chronic illness. Yes this was his day for being independent. George was grateful that his beloved library was user-friendly for everyone. A few years ago it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

About the author

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

Advent Day Seven 2015

Advent Day Seven

December 07

Alan Cadman

A Christmas Card 1914

A glass of cloudy lemonade

Dear Uncle Freddie,

Please excuse the soppy card; it was the only one I could afford. I treasure the wooden rattle you bought me before you were called up. I was going to whirl it above my head when our team scored, but I have not been to a football match since you went away. I pray it is not all fighting over there. I hope you will play a game yourself before this year ends; perhaps it will be on Christmas Day. When you score a goal, think of that spinning rattle.

Merry Christmas from your loving nephew,

George

About the Author

After being diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2000, Alan took up creative writing as a hobby. He has been writing short stories for nine years. Before that he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for a short while, but had to give it up due to health problems.

n 2011 Alan made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. In 2014 a story of his was included in an international anthology of twenty ghost stories; published in paperback and e-reader. Alan doesn’t write as much as he would like to, due to varying issues, but hopes to continue for as long as he can.

100 Worder Dead Quiet

100 Worder

Alan Cadman

Dead Quiet

A mug of hot sweet tea

He stepped out of the car unimpressed. ‘What’s that awful smell?’

            ‘That, my dear,’ his wife replied in a theatrical voice, ‘is the aroma of the countryside.’

            ‘It smells more like horse—’

            ‘Look around at all these wonderful views. You’re going to love it here.’

            ‘But we are townies,’ he said, pinching his nose. ‘I would hate to live in this house, it’s dead quiet and where is that bloody estate agent?’

            She pushed the front door; it creaked open. She reeled back. ‘You’re right about it being dead quiet. He’s on the floor and he is quite dead.’

  

About the Author

After being diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2000, Alan took up creative writing as a hobby. He has been writing short stories for nine years. Before that he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for a short while, but had to give it up due to health problems.

In 2011 Alan made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. In 2014 a story of his was included in an international anthology of twenty ghost stories; published in paperback and e-reader. Alan doesn’t write as much as he would like to, due to varying issues, but hopes to continue for as long as he can.

100 Worder Me and My Girl

100 Worder

Alan Cadman

Me and My Girl

A quick glass of Pinot Grigio

‘Do I look old fashioned?’ Robert said.

            ‘No,’ Jean, his partner, replied.

            ‘What about this tie?’

            ‘Stop worrying. You look great.’

‘What do you think she will she say when she sees me for the first time in years?’

            ‘How about, “Where have you been all my life, Dad?” Don’t forget, you ran away from her and her mother.’

            ‘What sort of music does a twenty-year old woman like?’  

            ‘Robert, it’s not about how you look or music, but if you think you can bond through it she might like Lady Gaga.’

            ‘Lady who?’ said Robert as the doorbell chimed.

About the Author

Alan has been writing short stories for seven years. Before that, he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for the same period. When he first started writing fiction, his published work was rewarded with complimentary copies from magazines. His first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve 2009.

In 2011 he made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. Alan also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The last three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. Alan’s work has been read out on Internet radio and his stories are now published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

100 Worder Well Chosen Words

100 Worder

Alan Cadman

Well Chosen Words

A calming Manhattan Cocktail

Damn and blast, that’s all I said. Just three small words uttered in about three seconds. A mild profanity, a conjunction and a noun, nothing else, so what’s the big problem with that? Everyone knows it can get a little heated in my job. I am the most powerful woman in the world; the President of the United States of America. How dare my husband reprimand me for cursing! I guess it must have been me shouting “blast” that he found disturbing. OK it did burst out of my mouth sharply, before I authorised the biggest decision I’ve ever made.

About the Author

Alan has been writing short stories for seven years. Before that, he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for the same period. When he first started writing fiction, his published work was rewarded with complimentary copies from magazines. His first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve 2009.

In 2011 he made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. Alan also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The last three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. Alan’s work has been read out on Internet radio and his stories are now published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

DECEMBER 8 2013: CREATION

DECEMBER 8 2013: CREATION

Alan Cadman

Ménage à Trois

A satisfying cup of Earl Grey; no milk or sugar

I am intrigued about who is concealed under a white blanket in front of me. I close the bedroom window, to shut out damp laden air. An earthy aroma still clings to my nostrils as I wipe condensation from panes of glass. Yesterday couldn’t have been more different. A Kingfisher streaked past slender branches of willow that dripped down into the canal. 

                Today, winter sunshine is burning off thick veils of fog. A sorrel is first to appear; then a roan looms silently into view. When an albino emerges from patchy shadows, three handsome horses roam loose around the ménage.

About the Author

Alan has been writing short stories for six years. Before that, he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for seven years. When he first started writing fiction, his published work was rewarded with complimentary copies from magazines. His first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve 2009.

In 2011 he made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. Alan also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The last three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. Alan’s work has been read out on Internet radio and his stories are now published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

100 Worder Panic

100 Worder

Alan Cadman

Panic

A Double Scotch … as quick as you can!

I feel alone and scared. Nothing comes out when I open my mouth to scream. No one down there is concerned. Even the office workers, only a few feet away from me, aren’t interested. I grip the rope with both hands and realise my safety helmet won’t be of much use if I fall. I’m suspended in a cradle from one of the tallest buildings in London, 30 St Mary Axe; better known as the Gherkin. 

               I must be the only professional window cleaner who’s developed a fear of heights … at totally the wrong moment in time.

About the author

Alan has been writing short stories for six years. Before that, he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for seven years. When he first started writing fiction, his published work was rewarded with complimentary copies from magazines. His first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve 2009.

In 2011 he made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. Alan also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The last three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. Alan’s work has been read out on Internet radio and his stories are now published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.