Feb 2023 – S J Lister. Author

Alphabet Project – A

There is a door down the street, there always is for the right person. As you walk down there are dull streetlights hanging limply over some park cars, some have seen better days, one is more duct tape than paint. The door you are looking for is all that breaks up a row of terraced housing among the gloomy lamps will be on the left, or the right depending on your persuasion or direction of travel. Along with how you comprehend left and right. Some do not.

But along this road, there is a door, somewhere, and when you do find it, you might try to open it. There are houses on both sides, so if it opens, you will only find a corridor. Nothing fancy, plain walls. A few pictures of some of the founding members for the establishment. One is a politician, it doesn’t need a name tag, you will know when you see.

But at the end of the corridor, apart from a small box, is another door. This one is another front door, albeit a little more fancy, the type of one that has glass that you can see yourself in and a shiny handle which can show your fillings. No number.

You have come this far, why not go a little further?

Beyond is what you need. For some, there is a long bar, a stool to sit on and a person behind it cleaning a glass with a towel, just like you have seen done in the movies. You may tell your friends that there is an amazing secret bar hidden in the street that you have found. In the future they will see the bar, drink there and toast to your find.

There may, of course, be more of a club scene when you enter. The music is all the classics from your youth when you danced the night away with that special someone who got away. The happy memories when you were young and didn’t have a care in the world. The next day, like when you were young, you have no hangover, not tired. It was a night just like the good old days.

Rooms can change, businesses develop, it could be a quiet café when you go in. A small selection of coffee, nothing pretentious. A place where a black coffee is, a black coffee. The chairs are comfortable and feel solid. They will serve vegetarian marshmallows with oat milk for your hot chocolate if it’s your way. It might be a place where you can sit, relax and work on that novel. Either to read or to write. But a quiet place for you to escape and have some time to get it finished.

When you chose to leave, the door will be waiting for you. You will find the street much like it was. The row of terraced houses will still be there. The duct tape on the car will still be competing for space with paint. But the lights may seem a little brighter. You may walk down the street and whistle, you may pull your coat in a little tighter as your hair flutters from the weather.

The Antidote door may not always fix your problems. But it is there to give you space to try to combat them. To give you a chance to take control and have time for you. Just remember to leave your feedback in the box. That way the room can do better next time. Should you need a second dose.

A is for Antidote.

The Date

Michelle watched the glass slowly fill with grape juice. At least that was what her mother had called it when she was young. It took her longer than she would like to admit, but she eventually realised that when it was called grape, it had really been fermented and made into wine. A drink she was now ordering for a second time, alone.

This was not the first time it had happened, in fact, she was starting to worry that she might be on first name terms with some of the staff soon. She wouldn’t tell anyone, but this was actually the second time within a week. It was probably the suggestion that she would need to end the night by 9.30, the need to be up early and a long day ahead was just a sensible precaution. To Michelle, this was forward planning. To let the person know that when she starts to clock watch at 9pm, it is not them but a need to leave to get a good night sleep.

Her friends had told her that this meant she was really telling the person that there was no chance of a happy ending to the evening. A phrase that always made her shudder and smile in equal measure.

Picking a place for a first meet with someone is always a difficult idea for her. Too fancy and this sends the wrong message, but too cheap implies something maybe too casual or not committed, or that she isn’t successful. Either way, too much thought had been given and trying to make a ratio of average cost on the menu to number of messages over the length of time for talking. Michelle needed to stop making spreadsheets and adapting the formula.

When the restaurant bring over a complimentary dish, this is probably a sign that they have taken pity on you for being stood up. What frustrated her more though, was that the dish looked too appealing to walk out and leave behind. So there she was, a successful, confident and independent women, drinking back a second glass of wine eating a complimentary pity dish with the eyes of all the staff, and probably half the guests too, watching her knock back each morsel.

At least I will be back before 8.30 tonight to prepare for my interview tomorrow.

GSC – Security for those that matter

Joan counted the till for a second time. She knew it could be counted a third, but the result would be the same. It was the same result from when she did a quick count of some of the supplies in the store room. Things were low. Every week Joan counted the receipts, looked at the deliveries, did a random spot stock check. They did not add up.

Sam appeared at the door behind her, his ability to quietly move around was a quality that had often supported him in the past, but Joan sighed as she did not want to ask what she needed to. She trusted Sam, always had since she hired him. The thought of having to swing on her chair to ask him with the numbers fresh and the consistent gaps worried her.

‘Have you seen these figures for the week?’. She placed her pen down next to the computer having ticked off each of the receipts.

Sam looked at Joan straight in the eyes. He did not shy away from difficult conversations by nature. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but no one here is the reason’.

Joan held his look, it was an odd feeling, but she was able to tell he believed he was telling the truth. She could never explain it, but when people lied to her she felt a warmth in the ears every time. She simply replied ‘I never said it was’. The pause felt longer than it was, it was only by counting to 5 in time with the second hand on the clock that managed to keep the weight of it come down on her.

‘I’ve checked each day, spoken to each of them on the floor’. Sam was always calm when he spoke. You would never know what happened to him outside of work. Good or unwelcome news, he was consistent in how he applied himself when he arrived. ‘No one has seen the money go or the stock disappear.’

Joan picked up the pen and hovered it over a pad of paper, bouncing the end of the pen on the paper. What could she write. No one knew anything. No one’s appeared to see anything. There was no point questioning what Sam had been told. Where others saw an issue in having him work in the shop, Joan saw it as a comfort.

‘I have to ask Sam’.

‘I know. I would worry if you did not.’

‘Have you seen anything that is a concern to you?’ The words fumbled out.

‘No. No one on the floor is a concern.’ He looked at the pen hovering over the pad. ‘I also haven’t taken anything either.’

‘I never suggested you did!’ Joan dropped her pen and jumped up, looking Sam in the eye.

‘Joan, calm down.’

The cushion on the seat is not a new one. Held together by more gaffer tape than thread. It was as Joan sat down in disbelief of the conversation some of the tape lost its grip in the struggle to hold it together.

Sam lent against the door frame, looking at the pile of bills pilling up next to the computer. Some were starting to come in with a range of phrases that all meant the same thing, pay up. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

The silence was finally broken when Olivia brought in a business card for Joan, passing it to Sam to bring to her.

‘Odd couple of guys wanted me to bring this to the Manager. Seemed shifty but nothing to write home about.’ With Sam’s thumb and finger holding the card Olivia drifted back out. Tapping the railings in the stock room as she walked out.

‘”GSC – Security for those who matter” Looks to be some security card’.

Joan took the card from Sam, it was a plain card with the name across the middle. The back was blank and all that was on the front, apart from the name, was a thin line around the margin squaring it out.

‘Looks like word is out for people to know we are losing something’.

Sam never liked the idea of someone taking advantage of him or his associates. If he ever felt threatened the bulk of him was a reminder that he would not take it lying down. As he straightened up the door frame was a reminder to where he was standing with a bump.

‘Sam, now you need to calm down.’ Her cheeks always showed a dimple when she smiled. It amused her how it could make Sam giggle when he saw them. At first it made her self-conscious, but then she realised the impact it had. There was a time and place for a calming note.

There was a knock on the door again and Sam swiftly moved out of the office doorway, a well-practiced motion for someone who has become accustomed to supporting the person in charge.

The business was still in Joan’s hand while she found herself waving it side to side. Normally, there would be a name, a number, or some form of contact detail for her to use, or chose to not use, pending who the card was from.

“For those who matter. What does that even mean?” Joan placed it above the pad of paper, which was next to the keyboard on one side, and a pen parallel to the pad on the other. Order. Through order you can be ready for anything. Joan collected her thoughts as she reviewed the items on her desk. Unlike the business outside of her office, all was as it should be.

Assumptions can be dangerous

We all do it. We don’t like it. We can be embarrassed by it. But we all do it. This can be down to when a person is in front of you, they may be in a rush and you might assume they are maybe rude, grumpy, or worse.

I am writing this on Valentines Day and I have been out doing a quick bit of shopping after work. Now you might be thinking that I have been out to buy flowers, a card or some last minute token to show love. Well if you did, tut tut. I baked cookies yesterday, iced them and brought them over this morning with a cup of tea and a card (bought a week ago).

It is thinking about the assumptions we make that has amused me lately. Being the vegetarian, with my wife who is not, I often get given the steak and she gets the veggie option. People hand her the lager and me the soft drink when I have often been the one to drive to events, so drinkies for me.

But when writing a character, the use of assumptions can lead the reader down a certain path to see if they can be tricked into thinking a certain way, or make an assumption. I use this slight idea to show annoyance or the MC in The Bus Driver between how people respond to Agatha and her husband Andy. It was an idea I wrote a few years ago and have enjoyed writing the dialogue between the two of them.

The use of the assumptions by some of the population in the story works well (I think), to show the playful relationship between Agatha and Andy. To show the little bits of humour between the two of them and how they live together to show support. However, making assumptions about how a character might behave, or using an assumption to explain how a character may behave, or a decision they may do, can limit the development of them.

Being a people watcher, especially in the airport when the flight has been delayed, I like to watch how people are around each other. Are they on a date? First holiday together? Secret meeting between old friends? Lads night out but one seems to watch the time more than the rest? Making assumptions is easy when the consequences are random conversation in a restaurant and is more of an exercise to see who can create the most elaborate story. To use a small detail to justify an element of a story. The shoes. The style of shirt. A hidden watch. A wedding band with no ring?

All details can become part of a story. They might just be a small nugget of information to deepen the character, or a small element for something later on to be relied for a climatic point later in the story arc. Used carefully, a well placed assumption can be a wonderful way to direct, or misdirect, a reader.

However, they can also be risky, in writing or real life. Assuming a detail about someone, or hoping an assumption will be picked up on, can lessen the point that is trying to be made. They can also play on someone’s prejudices, alternatively, show your own about what you yourself think about someone.

A final thought about this point. Remember when I said about details to think about when looking around the room. The missing wedding ring. Was your first thought about this to do with a cheating husband, a divorcee or a recent widow? Did a gender at all come to your mind?

Creating a story by what you see around you can be fun. Making short bio’s about people you see is an amazing way to develop your own craft as a writer. Something I need to do more often, working in retail means I have a plethora of people around me all day long (I have no excuse!) Just don’t let your own assumptions lead the story without your knowing or think the reader will always make the one you intend.

The Bus Driver. Part 8

With her shoes fixed, dress washed and hanging to dry along with a cheeky takeaway of fish and chips for dinner, the storm of the day calmed as it soaked away in her bath. Agatha eventually explained her day to Andy, who held back his giggles throughout, supported and comforted her after what was a clearly testing, although amusing for him, day.

Despite the worry and chaotic nature of the first day of going back to school, Agatha was pleased to see that even the new rush in the morning and afternoon soon fell into routine. With a regular hand appearing for more sweets back in full swing. As September sailed on, Agatha was pleased to see that the local children were, in general, a lovely group to have on the bus with only one incident that caused Del to stop the bus and get involved. To Agatha’s surprise, the child that was being rude quickly apologised and took their seat. Del, who seemed to have done very little, took control quickly and with what appeared to be very little effort on his part.

The change of leaves was always a good time to be on a bus, driving through the village lanes and seeing the watching the trees go by each day with the hints of orange, yellow and reds coming through. It was a joy that Agatha kept having to jump out of when the bus stopped at the remote stops to pick up passengers going to and from town. The bus was the connector to these parts and Agatha did enjoy meeting the different people, with some recognising her at the different pubs she and Andy would find themselves in. She was even once surprised when she was once offered a drink. Flustered, and out of an in built politeness, she accepted warmly and nearly forgot to go find Andy waiting for her in the car. It wasn’t until he came in to find her sitting at the bar sharing a half with another man, that she remembered where he had gone. Then when she introduced her husband to Nigel, she realised that the sadness that appeared in his eyes was probably from him thinking that, like him, she was a widow and looking for some company. Instead of what she was actually doing which was paying the bar tab from lunch.

Overall, with the flow of children each day, the weekly pub quiz and the growing number of friends they had both met, Agatha was, feeling at home in the new village. Tom had even, twice, tried to explain his different hobbies to her. She had made the mistake of doing the same routine that she does with her brother which was to remember details of what they said last time and then ask questions about it. This, unfortunately for her, gave the impression that she was interested. She was not. The rules of rolling dice, movement of little models and the significant of certain colours being used as paint was made all the more boring when pictures on the computer were used to help explain what they were talking about.

It was on a windy October morning that Del, having realised that Agatha had been caught by Tom by the glint in his eye, came in to save her from the conversation and suggested they needed to get moving as Betsy didn’t like to be kept waiting. Agatha was naturally polite, too much on occasion. Del was not.

‘She doesn’t want to hear about the latest rule changes and whatever you think about the value of a roll of a 4 on a dice.’ Carefully nudging Agatha to the door out of his office. ‘Besides, I am sure you really do have better things to do while in the office and a work schedule needed to get the buses all washed and serviced.’

Once they were out of the door and part way down the hall, Del paused. ‘You really need to stop letting him tell you about his hobbies. The best way, stop asking questions’. He paused, then abruptly turned to go to the bus. He walked off, leaving her behind but waited at the end of the corridor holding the door open while she collected herself.

Most buses had orange pumpkins on them with spiders or other such decorations stuck on them. Betsy didn’t. It was the one bus in the fleet, probably the county, that didn’t appear to express any awareness of the upcoming festivities. Agatha eventually asked about this the day before.

‘Betsy is not a party bus. She is not here to highlight a holiday or pick a football team.’ He managed to become more droll with each word that she was worried if he was able to speak softly to her again. ‘Also, when you decorate the bus, it only attracts more attention and I don’t want silly string in the seats again.’

Two ideas came mind, the first was the idea that there had been silly string sprayed all over the bus once and wondered how bad it got. The second, would this mean should couldn’t wear her elf costume to work when it gets close to Christmas. She might need to build up to that one though.

For now, Agatha was content in knowing that the bus system was working, her change system worked and she felt confident that with the addition of using a card machine soon will work smoothly now that the connect problem had apparently been solved so all cards could work. Well, all except American Express according to Tom.

Losing the fear

Many years ago, I had a colleague, you probably know the type, they were the one who called in sick. A lot.

Not because they were ill, with genuine health concerns, or had unseen mental health concerns. No. This colleague would call in sick because they simply couldn’t be bothered to come in. Or had somewhere they wanted to go that day so didn’t come in.

I know all this because, like all people who feel they are doing something naughty. They told me. They told me each time they did it. In fact, I was once even told before they did it. There were some tickets for an event and it was easier to have a day out too when they went.

When finally confronted about this, their response to me was something that surprised me. They had simply “lost the fear of doing it”. For them, once they had called in sick the first time, what was the problem doing it again.

This has come to lately and as a concept, it has got me thinking. Not about calling in sick, but about doing something that scares me. About how the fear is holding me back.

But losing the fear is something I need to tackle with writing. I remember sitting there last year when I first read out a piece I wrote in a writing class. Scared beforehand. Shaking through it. Followed by wanting to run out before the group could give comments on it. Thankfully, like most writing groups, they were all lovely and I left feeling that I might not be as bad as I thought I was.

So since then I have started this blog. Shared some short stories, book reviews and even some thoughts about the writing process (this piece for example). I have sent short/flash pieces off and am unbelievably happy to have a few online magazines in the process of publishing some pieces. It is therefore today I am using this fear to try something new, to the world of self-publishing with a piece on amazon this week (opening up to yet another group of critics).

It started with attempting to engage with writers via twitter (@lister_fiction) and putting myself out there, the more I share, the more the fear goes away. When, and it will be when I am sure, a negative review comes in, the fear may jump out of the box and show it hasn’t gone away. This, in itself, is a good thing, I think. Fear, a sensible level I mean, makes sure we check the quality of what we do. If we don’t fear, mixed with self-respect/pride in the work we produce, then we won’t be trying to make the best of that thought about a character and throw anything out there with mistakes that could have been found in a draft. Fear can be good, just like the biscuits in the jar in the kitchen, too many is not a good thing.

Just don’t call in sick as you had a late night down the pub and felt a bit tired that morning.