I set myself a little writing challenge for December.
Could I conjure up thirty 100-word stories to fill your Christmas stockings?
Halfway through the month, and here is the first batch. If you follow us on Substack Notes, you might have seen a new story pop up every day. You might want to treat yourself to a second read of your favourites. If this is the first time you are seeing them, dip in and out as though it is a huge box of Quality Street chocolates you cannot resist.
There’ll be a second batch at the end of the month.
1/30
Would You?
She’d said no but he’d persisted. Change of scene, he’d said, it’ll reconnect us. Unlikely, she thought, annoyed by his insistence, though indifference felt worse. But he’s trying too damn hard.
Why here, she hissed, feeling out of place in familiar surroundings.
He grinned weakly like he’d forgotten how to show her a good time. I thought you loved it here. You were glowing after the Conference.
“Ready to order?”. The waitress did a double-take. “Hey, cool to see you again. Thank God you’re back. Woody had given up on you. He might remember to smile again.”
She blushed.
Woody?
2/30
Bad Neighbours
When you’re down on your luck, you take any digs you can find, and try to fit in. It started with overflowing trash cans after a full-on weekender. Maybe it was the wind. He righted them and cleared up the crap. But rats are a whole new level. Then the noise, every hour, day and night. Thudding baselines, screaming vocals, explicit lyrics, a woman singing about giving no fucks. Two wrecked station wagons on bricks and the threatening growl of Harleys. Those boys were trouble. But the malevolent grandmother with the cocked shotgun and the filthy mouth scared him most.
3/30
Elevated
It was a hell of a surprise to find the elevator working on a night when he was too. He’d jabbed at the button in hope not expectation. But tonight felt good. Full moon, lift in full working order. He’d made the usual call to the radio phone in. They never knew if you were wacko or deadly serious. A graunch as the elevator slowed on the 7th, way too close to home. He decided she wasn’t getting in, ruining his buzz. Her curses faded as the doors slammed shut. Count yourself lucky, he thought, as he fingered the ligature.
4/30
Silent Night (festive fiction)
He relied on the legendary deafness of the vicar. He’d carried out his final reconnaissance from an uncomfortable pew, pinned in place by the old man’s out of tune bellowing. Reports of an antique safe proved true, but no alarms. Now, late at night, the silence was claustrophobic. Figures in ghostly dark side chapels watched him at work, looking down as he unpacked the tools of his trade. He worked quickly, understanding instinctively what was gold and what just glittered. In the morning, the vicar was open-mouthed. Who had broken in? Who should he thank for this perfect nativity scene?
5/30
Ready for a Brew
He rubbed his hands together, blowing on them for warmth, feeling his frosted breaths turn to moisture on skin rubbed raw by hard graft and carbolic soaps . Christ, arthritis was a bastard on cold mornings. He’d spent ten minutes straightening the fingers of his left hand so he could grip the shaft of the heavy axe. Yesterday’s chainsaw work had played hell with his forearms but an overnight dusting of snow was reason enough to get splitting. Seeing her worried frown at the window, he forced a grin, wiggling a hand for a brew. Keep that stove toasty, love.
6/30
Dear Diary
She shivered. The musky dampness of the boathouse felt as forbidden as ever. Maybe more so since their mother was no longer alive to countermand her inviolable instruction, ‘NEVER disturb me in my studio’. They never had. The daughter’s fingers trembled as she unlocked the Edwardian desk, catching the tumbling sheaf of vellum papers. It was embossed ‘1989’ the year father left. The crimson ribbon was frayed where it marked the page that fell open. Her mother’s elegant cursive script blurred through unexpected tears. “Dear Diary, it is not nearly as hard to kill a man as you might imagine”.
7/30
The prompt by Miguel S. was ‘raindance’ … hard to resist:
Dancing in the Rain
He signed his name in full, Eugene Curran Kelly, because he had a feeling. You don’t turn down Metro Goldwyn Mayer, no Sir. But, anyway, this was the movie he’d be remembered for. His polished brogues tapped under the desk, pent up energy buzzing through his lithe dancer’s legs. They left the imposing building as the heavens opened. His agent offered to share a cab but Gene needed air. Walk a block, left, and cut through. He froze mid-step, transfixed by a young man who laughed at the rain as he pirouetted on a lamppost. Brogues tapping, an idea formed.
8/30
Except
It was going to be the perfect crime. A small local bank. Tuesday, the quietest morning of the week. We had a man on the inside to press the right buttons. Halloween, so masks just look like fun. A fast car parked outside, engine running. Easy. Except. Except for the damn kid screaming because he’s scared of clowns. And the rookie cop moving idling cars on. Our man on the inside getting sick. And the delivery of banknotes being pushed back to Wednesday. Fine, except for Clarence dropping his damn gun and shooting himself in the foot. Worst crime ever.
9/30 (Inspired by Justin Deming and Miguel S.)
Hot Take
Hi, my name is Justin, welcome. The greeting was warm. There was a sense that sparks might fly. The prompt this evening is ‘campfire’, said the young man, rifling the pages of his flame-coloured notebook, his yellow Lamy fountain pen seeming to take on a life of its own. Begin:“I found myself sat on a gnarled log next to a man called Miguel. What do you do, I asked nervously, my attention caught by the way the fire danced in his eyes. I am a writer, he murmured. My thoughts flickered into life. ‘The Campfire’. Start with a title.”10/30
Life’s Lottery (festive fiction)
“Cratchit, what time do you call this?”
If Scrooge had been the sort of man to use imprecise language, he’d have observed that his clerk sauntered to his desk. He’d never asked after the wellbeing of his most loyal employee, but Bob Cratchit was clearly flushed, dishevelled, and walking unsteadily. Ebenezer Scrooge preferred port, but he could certainly detect Mrs Miggins’ gin on his clerk’s breath.
“What’s the meaning of this outrage? No Christmas Eve bonus, Cratchit, and I shall expect you in tomorrow”.
“Well, Eb, old fellow”, Cratchit smiled, “It turns out, if you’re in it, you win it”. 11/30
Choose
Her finger brushed across familiar titles, the story of her life in literary form. What to read? There were books that transported her to a place, or a time. Pages she had peered over the top of to get a better look at the boy showing off on the diving board in Santorini. Memories she wouldn’t be without. Pick one, she murmured. Leather-bound. Forster’s Florence. Yes. Long lunches, chilled crisp Vermentino. As the book opened, letters began to slide off the page, unwelcome words forming on polished oak. ‘You may pick three books, the only ones you may read again.’12/30
Curious
Silence greeted him. Office lights flickered on as he strolled down the aisle. Spotify shuffled, settling on ‘Beat It’, moonwalking him straight to his desk via the 80s. Maybe he should have worn red braces for the full workplace effect. The cavernous room filled up with pale spectres, shadow humans tapping futile messages on grubby keyboards. He watched them, head down, no one paying him attention. There was no conversation, no buzz. The place was a soulless vacuum. Curiosity had drawn him in but just past nine boredom drove him out. Who cared? Thank god he didn’t actually work there.
13/30
Gone
The faded photograph was scarred by lines, evidence of a fist tightening. A difficult history balled up in anger. Tear-stained Polaroids complicating things. She hadn’t known how to feel. The effort was all from her, swallowing the hurt and painting on a smile. Acting like there hadn’t been years of separation, a decade of not knowing. It’d been time to let bygones be bygones. Their meeting had been easier than she’d imagined. Smiles, genuine warmth, and then he disappeared again. She’d been angry, cursing recent memories as false, until they discovered he’d had no choice this time.
Life was cruel.
14/30
Dear Santa (festive fiction)
Dear Santa
I was thinking about being good. I like presents, and I really want some for Christmas (I should say ‘please’ here). Nothing too much. Maybe a dry robe for cold water swimming. It’s not like I’m one of those other types, the ones who pose in them round town. Losers. I might have called them that, or worse. Is that bad? Anyway, a robe and a bottle of whisky. I know that always make me frisky and I probably shouldn’t do that stuff in public. Really, is that a deal breaker? It is? Well, humbug to you Santa.
15/30
Just Write, Right
It was perfect. The rolltop desk was Edwardian, rumoured to be from a boarding house visited by Pepys. Perhaps he’d made a diary entry about his stay. A classic George Carwardine anglepoise lamp illuminated the manuscript. He’d spent ten minutes learning about such lamps. Six Blackwing pencils, sharpened painstakingly in the thirty seven minutes preceding his research, were lined up on a leather mat. It took twenty minutes to settle on a purple notebook, three to change his mind, eleven more to switch to yellow. His Mont Blanc hovered. The clock struck twelve. Time up. Maybe there’d be words tomorrow.
Hats off to you - I especially like 8 but so much gold here, thank you. Looking forward to more
These are wonderful, Barrie! And what an awesome challenge you set for yourself. Hmm…you’re making me consider 50 Days of Fifties…do I dare?
Happy Holidays to you!