Good Things by Chris Patrick
Last year, during the first lockdown, I wrote a short script in response to a call out by the BBC called Interconnected. I was delighted that it was in the top 8% of entries but unfortunately it never made it any further in the process.
The fact that we are now facing the same situation almost a year on, I feel like it might be good to put it up here for folk to read. Whilst we face personal sacrifice, heartache and tragedies both big and small, this is hopefully something that will bring a little warmth, a little smile and a little hope.
Enjoy
Cx
Good Things
by
Chris Patrick
INT. LIVING ROOM/KITCHEN - VIDEO CALL
TITLE CARD: WEEK 3
Jack and Mary, in their 60s, are waiting on the screen for the other side to be picked up.
Well, it’s Jack and Mary, but we can’t see them just now. What we can see is a lamp.
JACK: Have you done it right?
MARY: I think so, can you see them? Hello?
JACK: There’s nobody there Mary.
MARY: Oh I hope this works.
JACK: Aye.
Sajid appears on the other end of the conference call. Mary lets out a whoop of delight.
SAJID: Hey! Hello! Can you see me?
MARY: We can see you! Oh you look terrific, Si. Oh we’ve missed you!
JACK: Good to see you, you both keeping OK?
SAJID: Aye aye-(he starts to laugh) you need to tilt the camera down. All I can see is your lamp.
JACK: He says you need to tilt the camera down.
MARY: I know. I can--we’re on the same call!
JACK: Aye right you are.
They tilt the camera down so it shows them.
SAJID: There you are.
MARY: It was him that set it up no me.
JACK: Ach yer havering.
SAJID: Well I can see you now.
MARY: Where is she?
SAJID: I’m going to bring her in now.
MARY: Oh this is exciting. Isn’t this excited? Are you no excited Jack?
JACK: Aye, excited.
MARY: What’s the matter with your face?
JACK: Nothing. Feeling all-ye know.
MARY: Emotional, is that the word your looking for?
JACK: Aye.
MARY: Christ.
JACK: What?
MARY: The only things to make you greet are Saving Private Ryan and a bloody lockdown.
JACK: Aye well, I just want to hug my daughter.
MARY: I know.
Sajid brings in Haliee, who is about 6 months preganant. She is also deaf. Sajid guides her in, as she is wearing a blindfold. He gives a conspiratorial glance at the camera.
She sits down on a swivel chair, facing with her back to the camera. When Sajid speaks, he signs to Hailee.
SAJID: Now I know when this all started, you were really down because you knew you wouldn’t get to see of speak to your parents for a long time because they only had a house phone. Well, I’ve tried to do something that might cheer you up.
He swivels her round, she takes a minute to place the camera then she lets out an excited scream, hands to her mouth.
Jack is waving furiously, Mary is emotional and waving, hand up to her mouth also.
When Mary speaks, she signs.
MARY: Oh Hailee, don’t cry.
JACK: Whey-hey, there she is. Aw bless her.
HAILEE: (signing only) Are you OK?
MARY: We’re fine, we’re fine. Oh don’t cry cos you’ll set me aff! Are you OK?
HAILEE: Fine. I miss you.
MARY: I know sweetie.
Jack puts his face right close to the camera, and starts mincing in the reflection by fixing his hair.
JACK: How’s my wee grandwain to be?
Mary slaps him. Sajid and Hailee laugh.
MARY: Away and get back from the camera you. You don’t need to get right up to the camera, filling the bloody screen I cannae see them!
JACK: Well I cannae sign that well so she needs to read my lips.
MARY: I’ll sign. Jesus wept.
HAILEE: You know it’s only Week 3?
MARY: Aye, we know.
HAILEE: It’s so good to see you. Both of you. You need to stay safe.
JACK: What did she say?
MARY: We need to stay safe.
Jack goes to the camera again, lips almost touching it.
JACK: So do you.
Hailee and Sajid laugh.
MARY: Would you get back--honestly, this is going to be a long time.
We leave them for a moment as they laugh.
FADE OUT:
FADE IN:
TITLE CARD: WEEK 6
INT. LIVING ROOM/KITCHEN - VIDEO CALL
Mary and Hailee are mid call when we join them.
HAILEE: The baby is kicking like crazy.
MARY: Oh I wish we were there to feel it kick.
HAILEE: How’s Dad?
MARY: Christ, he’s like the bloody window police. He stands there at the window and starts shouting SIX FEET APART, YER NOT SUPPOSED TO BE OUT! He’s driving me up the wall.
Hailee laughs.
MARY: I’ve got a calendar now. Counting down the days. One for the birth and one for this to be over. Do you think the baby will hang on in there till this is all over?
HAILEE: If he’s anything like his father he’d be here already trying to help.
MARY: And he’s staying safe?
HAILEE: He is.
MARY: Well we’re proud of him for continuing his work. Our son-in-law on the front line we tell folk. Your Dad thinks he deserves a medal.
HAILEE: I’ll be sure to tell him that. He’ll like that.
They smile for a moment. We leave them again.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
TITLE CARD: WEEK 9
INT. LIVING ROOM/KITCHEN - VIDEO CALL
Hailee sits there and the screen rings on the other end. Waiting.
Her Dad answers. Hailee waves and signs.
HAILEE: Hi Dad.
JACK: Hi honey. How are you?
HAILEE: What?
He brings the camera up again to his face.
JACK: How are you?
HAILEE: Dad, you need to sign?
JACK: Oh I don’t know what you--can you not read my lips?
HAILEE: Try and sign.
JACK: I know I should have paid more attention at the sign class. Yer mother could be saying anything about me tae you and I wouldn’t know.
Hailee shakes her head.
HAILEE: I don’t know what you’re saying.
JACK: Your mother--(he shouts to the other room) MARY--your mother will be here in a minute.
They sit in silence for a moment. It’s painful, sad. Jack starts to get emotional. He can’t communicate with his daughter, let alone hug her. Let alone be in the same room. He clears his throat.
JACK: I’ll call, we’ll call you back when your mother is here. I’m sorry honey, I need to go.
He waves bye. She waves bye. The connection ends. She sits there for a moment, then the tears come and she puts her head in her hands, catching the raindrops falling from her face.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. LIVING ROOM/KITCHEN - VIDEO CALL
TITLE CARD: WEEK 12
Jack and Mary are waiting for the phone to answer.
JACK: Maybe they’re busy.
MARY: Busy where? Away partying at Club Kitchen?
JACK: Just leave a message.
MARY: It doesnae work like that.
JACK: This kind of technology and it cannae take a message?
MARY: Right, I’m setting up the spare room the night, I need peace.
JACK: Ach awae.
MARY: You’re just nervous aren’t you?
JACK: Why would I be nervous?
MARY: I know you’ve been taking the sign classes online.
JACK: Aye? Well, you know, thought it was about time I gave it another go.
MARY: I’ve seen you practice. You’ll be fine.
JACK: Aye.
MARY: Christ, were are they?
And the call is answered. It’s Sajid.
SAJID: Hey guys, sorry. I was just--he looks off camera--it’s your Mum and Dad. Here you come and sit here. I’ll take over.
Hailee comes in. She’s no longer pregnant. But Jack and Mary don’t know that yet.
MARY: Hi honey - oh god you look exhausted? Has the baby been kicking?
HAILEE: Yes, she’s been keeping us up all night.
MARY: Well, your Dad has something he wants to say to you.
HAILEE: What? You need to tell him I can’t really read his lips it gets all blurry.
MARY: Just wait.
Jack a little shy, signs.
JACK: How are you both and the baby? We miss you all. Love you.
Hailee shocked, hands clasp her mouth. It’s a joyous moment. She’s torn between crying, laughing and smiling.
HAILEE: When!? How!?
JACK: Oh, christ, it took me two weeks to learn that. Eh--
MARY: He’s been taking classes online.
HAILEE: I’m proud. We’re OK. Love you too.
JACK: Love you and OK - I understood that!
MARY: Where’s Sajid?
HAILEE: He’s good. He’s just getting her ready.
MARY: Good that’s--getting who ready?
JACK: Who’s getting ready?
HAILEE: Well you asked how the baby was, why don’t you ask her yourself?
MARY: What? WHAT? OH MY--
And we hear a cry, off screen. Jack and Mary are smiling, tears in there eyes. Celebratory. Touching the screen. Fist pumping.
They look at each other.
HAILEE: Good things can still happen in 12 weeks.
The Alternative Christmas Viewing Guide: 2020 Edition
Struggling to get into the festive spirit this year? Aye, I know - it’s not surprising.
A few years ago I wrote a feature called Surviving Christmas: An Alternative Viewing Guide To Get You Through The Holidays. Instead of trotting out the same article, I thought I’d give it a little update for 2020.
So please find below some recommendations for alternative movies and tv shows for the 2020 festive season.
Find The Magic
Unlocking that festive spirit is sometimes about accessing your inner child. Sometimes Christmas movies of old may not do it anymore (because you’ve watched them so much over the years - although The Santa Clause always gets me) and modern Christmas movies don’t have the same magic to them (except maybe The Christmas Chronicles).
So instead of trying to get into the festive spirit with a Christmas movie - watch something that transports you back to a more innocent time. Maybe it was one of the first films you watched over the holiday period or perhaps it was a film or TV show that you can remember watching at a young age and it takes your mind right back there.
It could be anything from Jurassic Park, to the David Tennant episodes of Doctor Who (Christmas special or no Christmas special), or maybe a rewatch of Battlestar Galactica or the 88th viewing of Back To The Future.
It doesn’t need to be Christmas themed - all it needs to do is take you back.
On-Screen Family and Friends
Perhaps most painful this year has been the separation from family and friends. In a time when you may be unable to spend time with your loved ones, or be forced to find new ways to spend time with them or perhaps even the time is limited - turn to the comfort of your on-screen family and friends.
For me, this is where TV is at it’s strongest - a constant group of characters who you can find comfort in and visit at any time.
Whether it’s dropping into Stars Hollow with Gilmore Girls, finding the beauty in ordinary things with The Office or hanging out in a coffee shop or flat with Friends - you’ll be able to keep yourself company with your on-screen family and friends.
Escape
If ever there was a year wherein escape has been needed, it’s 2020. And there are plenty of worlds that you can lose yourself in during the holiday period - worlds far away from our own.
So if you want to shut out the real world and escape - delve into a galaxy far far away with Star Wars, find an adventure in middle earth with Lord of the Rings or celebrate heroes in a year where we’ve seen them for real in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Doing Their Best
It’s been an immense struggle this year - for everyone. Within the horrible, shared global experience lies individual struggles, strife, tragedies, heartbreaks and moments where perhaps you haven’t been your best self. And that’s OK - I don’t think anyone hasn’t at one point or another realised they haven’t been their best self, at times possibly their worst self. So put something on that’s going to cheer you up, make you feel less alone or watch people trying their best to do what good they can in a world or situation that is constantly fighting them.
For me, there are three contenders for that with a clear winner - The West Wing. Although special shout outs to Parks and Recreation and Lost.
Alternative To Viewing
Finally, you may be sick of watching TV shows and films (although perish the thought) so if that’s the case pour yourself a hot drink and watch the world go by outside your window if you can. If you can go for a walk, to take in the crisp winter air and stay present, then do that. If reading a book with a cosy jumper on is what you love to do, then do it.
This year is going to be different. Remember past traditions and hold on to new traditions that have been put on pause.
It’s OK to be sad this year. But remember times past, and look to the future where time will be like that again. Write down your favourite memories from festive period’s past or talk about them with your loved ones - remember them to relive them. And remember that it will change. Remember that it is only temporary - nothing lasts forever.
Never lose sight of hope; it’ll be the best gift you can give yourself this Christmas.
Stay safe, take care and have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Cx
The Series Two Finale of Toasted Fiction Theatre
And there we have it! The Series 2 finale of the Toasted Fiction Theatre podcast. It’s an audio only version of a short film I wrote & directed a few years ago. It’s called The Auditors and I’m still very fond of it.
It stars Hayley Bristow, Jericho Reid, Craig Anthony-Ralston, Kerry Browne, Erin Donnachie and John Savage.
Thanks to everyone who was involved in Series 2 including Paul Kozinski, James Keenan, Short Attention Span Theatre, No Nonsense Productions and Wee Theaters.
Thanks for listening to Series 2! It’s possible this is the last series of the podcast - but don’t worry, I’m cooking up some new projects to bring to your eyes and ears!
Take care
Cx
Tree Toppers: A Christmas Story
The door to the loft swung open, casting the entire space in a pale yellow glow as the light bulb hung from the rafters like a fading sun. It was December, which meant the annual search for the Christmas decorations had begun and the routine muttering of “This place is a mess. It needs gutted. We’ll do it in the spring….” echoed throughout the house. Dodging the wooden beams and the occasional drip of rainwater as the hunt began, Tom continued his rants about the state of the house. Since moving in roughly four years ago, the loft had turned into nothing more than a makeshift dumping ground for the nostalgic. Like a TARDIS that had crash-landed and its content spilled out everywhere. It was crammed with everything from wedding dresses, plastic sleeve vinyl and suitcases stuffed with baby clothes and cuddly toys from a childhood gone by. Dodging the debris that was scattered around the loft, Tom eventually found the decorations in the same place they always where; in the back left corner somewhere between the photo albums, a dust-covered poker table and a pile of board games that had already been ear-marked for eBay. This year however, it was also wedged behind an eerie painting called “ Twelve Cats In A Pub”, a gift from his wife’s crazy aunt who, since entering her 80th year couldn’t finish a story with “they’re dead now.” Shoving the painting aside, Tom rescued the decorations from the pile and took them downstairs to where his kids were waiting patiently at the foot of the ladders, ready to welcome them with open arms and help the house get into the festive spirit.
As Tom made the short descent, refusing any help from below, the decorations rolled around in the box, banging off of each other with a CLINK, CLANK and RUSTLE. It almost sounded like they were fighting, jostling for position to be first out of the box and out onto the Christmas tree. This of course wasn’t the case. They were instead victim to an impromptu rollercoaster ride as Tom tried to do what every man can’t multi-task. Balancing the box in one hand, he tried to turn off the light and shut the loft door while simultaneously descending the ladders. It was times like this he thought he was some sort of domestic superhero. A house trained Batman.
Refusing the help from his kids, (Tom wanted to instil the idea that father’s were able to do anything and everything without assistance which of course just wasn’t the case) Tom’s endeavour ended in tears. The box fell and landed on Abigail’s head who, thankfully, was at the age where she could take this kind of incident in her stride without an explosion of waterworks. The real casualty however was a score of decade old baubles, escaping from the box prematurely and landing on the kitchen floor. It smashed into a thousand pieces before making the sad journey to the rubbish bin while the rest of them made their way into the living room.
The tree was the first to go up and, as always turned into a battle that became known as a game of festive jenga. Pete, Abigail’s older brother (who had just decided to re-create the nativity as an R-rated movie, putting the donkey and Joseph in compromising positions while Mary entertained the wisemen and the baby Jesus smoked a makeshift joint) had begun trying to put the tree up without any sort of plan which caused the two of them to start arguing over the correct way to put it up. This ended with Pete having a tree branch shaped bruise on his arse and Abigail being tied up and jammed in the empty cardboard box that housed the tree before Tom eventually managed to split them up. He’d only stepped out for a moment to make a cup of tea as a sort of mental preparation before beginning his yearly fight with the lights. Each year as he tried to untangle them he swore (as everyone does) that he put them back into the box the previous year untangled and was now thoroughly convinced that it was some act of mischief carried out by the lights in order to frustrate him. The idea that the Christmas light’s had a mind of their own and were able to pull of something like this was something that never failed to entertain the kids or his wife. What they didn’t know was that, yes, every year Tom had put them in the box untangled and that it was indeed an act of mischief. There was only one way the lights could get their kicks and they were fairies after all weren’t they?
The lid came off the decoration box, unleashing a cloud of dust that rained over the living room like little flecks of snow, causing Abigail to enter into a sneezing fit. Each ACH-CHOO louder than the last, the poor thing had inherited her mother’s habitual sinus problems that caused her nose to work over-drive. But, much like her mother Abigail was a trooper and carried on going through the decorations regardless, looking for the ones that were being rewarded with a place on the tree this year. As she began the judging process, her father and brother assembled the tree behind her, or at least they tried to. They were lacking the woman’s touch that there mother wasn’t on hand to provide at that moment and was a duty which Abigail didn’t dare touch, her mother’s shadow too great. Deciding to leave it to the professionals, she instead continued her search for the most important decoration of all; the tree topper.
It wasn’t the traditional star or fairy that oversaw proceedings in the Dawson Household each Christmas. It was in actual fact something much more peculiar, giving the tree a unique identity and a bit of personality not shared by the other Christmas trees in the neighbourhood. The tree topper in question was Garfield in a Santa hat. As Abigail hunted for Garfield, growing frantic in her search, Pete and her Dad had began debating over which Christmas music was best to accompany them. It was a dead heat between an AC/DC’s Christmas classic, Mistress For Christmas, the live recording of Thunder’s annual Christmas show or a compilation album that flipped between Frank Sinatra, Paul McCartney and Mariah Carey without mercy. Eventually they settled on the Thunders album, Rock City, much to Abigail’s delight. She was desperate for anything that would avoid the traditional fare that played on a loop in shopping centres, the radio and in supermarkets all month. She was also happy because they were the first proper band Abigail had ever seen live and was the rare occasion that found all four of them (Abigail, Pete, her Dad and even her mother despite the original protestations) enjoying the same taste in music. Going to the gig was one of her happiest memories and the opportunity now to hear their take on some festive classics (not to mention some humdingers of their own) looked to put Abigail in the best mood she’d been in months, if not the entire year. It had been a turbulent one for the family but especially her, more turbulent than any young girl her age should experience. It was for this reason that it was vital the tree be just perfect this year and the house be decorated more Christmas-y than it had ever been, in an effort to wash the bad taste the year had left in each of their mouths.
When Abigail finally picked out Garfield she felt a great wave of relief and smiled, sitting him on the mantelpiece to wait patiently waiting before taking his rightful place at the top. She squinted at Garfield for a moment who smiled lazily back and remembered something her mother had said to her once when she was a child. She had come up with the idea one year that Christmas decorations were, just like Woody and Buzz from Toy Story (a movie they both watched religiously) ALIVE. Eyeing Garfield now, she couldn’t help but feel a suspicious sense of wonder that perhaps her mother was right. But the thought slipped away as quickly as it had come as Pete dangled the tinsel in front of her face in a rustle of colour and took her away from an impromptu investigation into the idea her mother had stumbled upon all those years which would have found that this was, in actual fact, the truth.
They were alive.
Garfield sat on the mantle-piece flanked by his colleagues, a mismatch bunch that ranged from Harry Potter, a Santa made from toilet roll, Pluto The Dog (who’s head had been removed by the family’s cat last year and looked particularly gloomy today because the glue was too itchy) and a plethora of other famous and not so famous faces. Each of them watched on as Abigail tore her suspicious gaze away and moved on to tackle the task of taming the tinsel around the tree. As they watched the three of them fight with the spiky rainbow (a name Tom had given tinsel) they noted the remarkable change in the family and how much they seemed to grow each year. What was incredibly touching, however, was the fact that they remained a unit, stronger than ever, no matter the challenges they had faced (both professionally and emotionally) throughout the year. Being stuffed in a box in the loft for 11 months the Decorations Crew only had periphery knowledge of what went on. They had to figure out what was going on from the muffled sound of emotion that came from below or when one of the family retreated to the loft for a moment of quiet reflection, or indeed a few silent tears. It’s why they took their job so seriously and so preciously. It was their job to brighten up the house yes, but it was also their job to brighten up the mood of the family, and as always, they only had one shot at it a year.
One by one, the Decoration Crew went to work as they were removed from the mantelpiece and hung on their individual tree branch, taking their guard positions that would remain theirs for the forthcoming month. Being the tree topper Garfield was last, watching on as the family worked the tree delicately and with a care that had seemed scarce in previous years. It was important they got it right this year, the tree the way their mother would want it to be, one that would make her smile if she were to come through the door right now, despite the ramshackle job of the lights. Finishing up, the three of them stepped back and admired their work proudly. The excitement was palatable now, buzzing throughout the room as the time came to finish things off and for Garfield to take his position at the top.
He was delighted when it was Abigail who picked him up and carried him gently toward the tree before her father lifted her into position to put him in place. The view from here was complete and beautiful, and he desperately hoped that Abigail was sharing the moment in all its beauty. As she nestled him comfortably on top of the tree, she smiled at him and, for a split second, it seemed as though that she was in on the secret before her father took her away and back down to Earth, leaving him up there surrounded with tinsel, lights and old friends.
The three Dawsons stepped back to survey the tree in all its glory, safe in the knowledge that they’d done a good job. Tom thought it would be of great surprise to his wife that not only had they had done such a stellar job, but that the tree was still standing as were they, something that they hadn’t quite mastered before now.
Tom looked up to the top of the tree, and became fought back a tear. The fact was that Garfield had been in the family longer than the kids had, and had seen everything. So many happy memories were contained within him. Tom hugged his kids as hard as he could without squishing them before letting them go and asking Pete to go and make them some hot chocolate while he and Abigail picked a Christmas film for them to watch; a three-way battle between Santa Clause, Jack Frost and It’s A Wonderful Life.
As Garfield clung on for dear life at the top of the tree, he was anticipating the coming month with real fervour. He was here for them, they all were. They were here for the smiles on Christmas morning, the tears on Christmas night and the laughter on Boxing Day, Christmas Eve and all the days in between that it was possible to laugh. From his view at the top, he would look after the family over the Christmas period and to him, this was why Christmas truly was the most wonderful time of the year.
Free Digital Downloads
Until Wed 11 Nov, The Quest For Perfection (Is A Damn Fine Thing) and The Face In The Sky are available as a free digital download from Amazon.
Head here, select the books and head to Amazon from there.
If you download them (or if you’ve already read them) throw a wee review in there. Much appreciated.
Take care
Cx
Sage Tower Publishing Feature
Delighted to have been featured on the Sage Tower Publishing blog, highlighting authors and other creatives!
You can check out the feature here and give the team at Sage Tower Publishing a follow.
An Update On Toasted Fiction Theatre Series 2
OK. Toasted Fiction Theatre: Series Two. What the F#@K happened!?
Well, a couple of things really. Nothing major in the grand scheme of things but enough for me to take a pause, take a step back and figure out if this was the best thing to do, creatively speaking, at this point.
Let me preface this with this - I am delighted with the episodes that I put out, The Lost Soul of Captain Willis (recorded pre-COVID in front of an audience with the wonderful Paul Kozinski) and the three Para Handy tales from Kevin Jannetts’ No Nonsense Productions, with Stewart Phillips and Calum McVittie which had the sole purpose of recording these old time radio tales and sending them to local care homes in Inverclyde so the residents, those who would make up some of the audience for the live Para Handy shows, could listen to them and remember a simpler time and reminisce. We managed to give them something fun, an escape. And I’m delighted about that.
But when it came to producing the rest of the series, and I turned to new writers and the cast of actors I work with, that’s when I hit the stumbling block. I couldn’t produce the series the same way I produced series one. For a couple of reasons.
Firstly, in the early days of the pandemic, when the world locked down, and I’m sure I’m not alone, I went into what I can only describe as a crazy panic of creativity. Time - finally we have time! We can throw ourselves into our creative work and I can continue to create a podcast remotely. But on reflection, yes there was time, but it wasn’t the right time. And yes, I could throw myself into creative work, but it wasn’t the right creative work. Looking back it was a bit if “Oh my god what can I do I’m never going to have an audience again how do we continue!? But I think honestly, it didn’t come from the place of creating. It came from a fear of not being able to create.” And, truthlly, I don’t think I could quite get excited about spending so much time in front of Zoom, trying to create and work with people who, part of the joy of creating, is collaborating with them in a room. Most of the time, I put on shows or make sketches or short films, because I want an excuse to hang out with friends and be silly. We couldn’t really do that.
And secondly, and honestly one of the main reasons, was funding. The cast and writers from series one are friends. And the great joy I had making the first series was being able to write and produce new stories, with a wonderful cast of friends and writers but, and this is an important but, everyone got paid. We’re not talking Hollywood Box Office money, but they got paid for the time, talent and hard work - even if it was just a little bit. Going into producing this second series, I thought great I have a platform that can produce and have an audience. Why did I stop in the first place!? Well, that’s why. The funding stopped with series one and I never continued the live shows which would have meant, with a paying audience, everyone would get a little something from the box office, at the very least.
After the first flurry of episodes, and I started to plan a second series, I started to realise, shit. This isn’t just going to be a month or two of creative people not working. This could be a long time. And it kind of goes against everything i stand for and the pact I made with myself that I won’t do work with other people unless I can pay them something, even if it’s just a little. Even if it’s just a share of the Box Office. If I want to do creative work and not earn any money, I’ll just keep writing books and putting them out there. It doesn’t feel right, in a year where creative livelihoods have been stopped, to be part of the problem and not the solution. I couldn’t in good conscience go ahead as planned and make people do what they love for free when they can’t do it at all. It may be something we love but it is work. It’s not a hobby.
So, instead of doing the season as planned I’m going to round off with a few stories that are already pre-recorded or written by myself in the past. A short monologue with the wonderful James Keenan that took place in May for Short Attention Span Theatre, based on a true story and a short film called The Auditors I made in 2013 produced by Pan Breed productions. If I find anything else I’ll chuck it in.
Don’t worry I’m cooking up a project or two for when we can sit together and be together again. And it’s going to be fun. I cannae wait - and I’ll see ye there.
If you want more of my writing do check out my website, where you can find short stories, sketches and links to all my books. You can also check out my instagram, @dancingtoaster for all the latest short little stories and other bits and pieces.
Take care, stay safe and we’ll share some more stories with you soon.
Little Jimmy
This story originally appeared in Toasted Fiction: A Collection of Very Short Stories (That Nobody Asked For) available here.
My First Book Is Now Available Again
My first book, beautiful shot here by Calum McMillan.
Finally fixed the site.
You can now order signed copies again.
Only £5.
Appreciate the support!
Cx
https://toastedfiction.bigcartel.com/product/toasted-fiction-a-collection-of-very-short-stories-that-nobody-asked-for
PS - it would help clear the stock out my Mum and Dads loft. We would appreciate if you could buy one.
Is This What Happy Feels Like?
This story originally appeared in Toasted Fiction: A Collection of Very Short Stories (That Nobody Asked For) available here.
Nearly There
This goes out to The Nearly Men who are currently in the midst of their 24-Hour Charity Stream on Twitch for Edinburgh Children’s Hospital Charity.
Stop by & give some support to the wonderful trio!
Watch: http://twitch.tv/TheNearlyMen
Donate: http://TheNearlyMen.com
Step by Chris Patrick
It was his 110th birthday.
The mirror confirmed as
much, with his stretched leather skin and his nicotine-yellow teeth.
All his life, Arthur had lived indoors doing nothing but worry, leaving his dreams for sleep.
Today he stepped out for the first time.
He never stepped back.
28 Days Guarantee
About 5 years ago, I started writing 50-word nano stories each day. I loved it. It allowed me to write a story each day, and would keep me present in the moment as I looked for inspiration.
I’m starting them up again and can be found on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, here and on Goodreads shortly.
The first one is below.
Enjoy Cx
Exclusive Sneak Peek at Keepin' Up Wae Mackenzies!
Hey reader! Thanks for stopping by the site. Here is an exclusive sneak peek at my upcoming book, Keeping’ Up Wae The Mackenzies!, a comedy about Scotland’s answer to The Kardashians.
Check it out on Amazon for pre-order or keep an eye here for updates!
Enjoy, take care and thanks for the support
Cx
Hey reader! Thanks for stopping by the site. Here is an exclusive sneak peek at my upcoming book, Keeping’ Up Wae The Mackenzies!, a comedy about Scotland’s answer to The Kardashians.
Check it out on Amazon for pre-order or keep an eye here for updates!
Enjoy, take care and thanks for the support
Cx
Pre-Order on Amazon Here
INT. REALITY BITES PRODUCTION OFFICE - DAY
The Reality Bites Production Office is bustling. Nervous chatter fill the room, as the staff take their seats at the conference-room style table. Jo Levine rushes into the room, taking a seat next to Samuel Gerrard.
“Has it started yet?” asked Jo, panting for breath.
“Not yet, darling. Sarah’s just doing her pre-meeting routine,” Samuel drawled.
Jo looked out of the conference room, to find their boss, Sarah staring in at them all. She pointed at her staff then performed the “slit throat” gesture, walking up and down.
“This is new,” Jo said, raising an eyebrow.
Samuel nodded. “Mm-hm. HR said she wasn’t allowed to use one of us as a prop anymore. So, this is her new thing.”
“Any idea what this meeting is—” but Jo was interrupted as Sarah entered.
She dragged a toy plastic slide in behind her, which gets stuck in the door. She pulls at it, frantically.
“What the fuck is she doing?” asked Jo.
“I never know anymore and I’ve stopped asking unless I have a drink in my hand.”
Sarah eventually gets it free, stumbling into the room. Regaining her balance, she then takes the pastries from the centre of the table and then, without explanation, drops them on the slide and lets them make their way to the bottom.
“What does this represent?”, Sarah exclaimed.
A hand shoots up.
“Losing weight.” It was Ben.
“WRONG. Who else?” shouted Sarah.
Nobody else was brave enough. Yet. Except of course, Ben.
“Putting on weight?”
“NO. It’s got nothing to do with weight. Anybody?”
She runs out of pastries. Looks around, doesn’t find a suitable replacement, so points at Ben.
“Ben, come here a second. I need you.”
Ben stands.
“Get on the slide,” she demanded.
“Eh, I don’t think that’s designed for an adult Sarah.”
Sarah blinked. “Get on the slide.:
Ben fidgeted nervously. “I really—”
“SLIDE!”
Ben reluctantly and carefully starts to climb the slide. Gingerly, Ben starts to sit on it when--
--CRACK. The slide collapses, Ben with it. The room gasps, Sarah smiles.
“Perfect, good representation Ben. What does that represent?”
Jo, more in an effort to stop this, threw her hat in. “Health & Safety?”
“No.”
Samuel raised his hand. “Workplace bullying?”
Sarah shook her head and signed before screaming. “RATINGS!”
Samuel slumped in his seat. “Aw Christ.”
Sarah, triumphant, starts to march around the room. “That’s right people. Ratings. The ratings for our shows on our channel are slipping. Reality Bites used to be the pinnacle of reality TV! But no more. We’re bottom of the pile. So come on, what’s the plan? How do we improve viewer ratings? How do we get out audiences back?”
A whimper from somewhere on the floor. “Can someone help me?”
Sarah clicked her fingers. “Yes, Ben. Good idea, but those ideas have been done to death.”
Jo glanced around nervously, mumbling under her breath. “We could always diversify.”
Sarah stopped, behind Jo. “What’s that Jo? Speak up.”
Jo cleared her throat and sat up straighter in her chair. “Eh, oh, I just was saying we could diversify.”
“Go on.”
“I just think, if you look at our network, it’s all straight white men and women. We might see people search out our channel if we start representing more than that. We could look at the LGBTQ+ for a start.”
Samuel nodded. “Like RuPaul. Can we get RuPaul?”
Jo shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Sarah clapped her hands. “I like this, but sadly we aren’t in a position to commission a slate of new shows. We need to work with what we’ve already invested in.”
Samuel shrugged. “Pity we can’t just use the folk we have already.”
Sarah took a sharp intake of breath. “Now there’s an idea.”
Jo looked at Sarah, confused. “Sorry what?”
“That’s exactly what we’ll do. And I know just the show we can try it on. Get your cases packed, you’re heading to Scotland.”
Wiggies
One of my favourite stories from the collection The Shadow People Won’t Take Us Alive & Other Lost Souls, and it’s a nice little cheerful one. Have a read, and hopefully it’ll put a smile on your face.
C x
“You pussying out or what?”
The voice was Jace, one of the “cool kids” from my school. I stood there, looking through the mesh of wire fencing surrounding Mrs. Dorries house, splitting her world into a thousand diamonds. At least that’s what it looked look to me. I turned to look at Jace and the other kids (D-Boy, Sandy & Billy) who stood there with there arms folded, staring at me impatiently.
“He’s a pussy,” said D-Boy. “He isnae gonnae dae it. He’s no goat wit it takes to be in oor gang.”
This lit a fire under me. I’d been without a proper group of friends for a number of years now. I was 12 years old and I’d grown up on a diet of books & films like Stand By Me, Diner & Grease. They were all movies with groups of friends and I desperately wanted to be part of my own little cool gang. Maybe Jace, D-Boy, Sandy & Billy weren’t the cream of the crop but it beat staying at home every night and watching all the other kids have fun outside. What I didn’t expect was to have to go through some sort of initiation process, nor it be something so, well, criminal.
I turned back to them. “I’m naw a pussy, I jist….is there naw somethin' else? I know Mrs. Dorries; she looks after me sometimes when my parents are late back from work. Is there naebody else?”
Jace looked at the others then walked toward me, jabbing a finger in my chest, then pointed to the house. “Naw Davie,” said Jace. “There isnae. Now fucking get in there and steal that old bitch’s wig, eh?” I gulped, trying not to show it. This wasn’t like The Goonies. I wondered if I just did the truffle shuffle might defuse the tension and endear me to the group but I didn’t have the required jiggle and they’d probably just beat me up. I turned back to the house and examined it. Mrs. Dorries was a hermit. She was a recluse who hadn’t left her house in over 2 years, not since her husband had passed. We used to call Mr. Dorries The Man With The Lego Hair or The Scaletrix Man. He used to walk around the town with Mrs. Dorries with the worst wig on. They sometimes looked like a bit of Lego, or the little grey bits you’d get on the back of a Scaletrix car, hence the names. Mrs. Dorries also used to wear wigs, slightly better fitting and always a different colour every day. Nobody knew why she wore a wig but we all thought it was maybe to support Mr. Dorries so he didn’t feel alone. They had earned the nickname around town of The Wiggies. But a few years ago, Mr. Dorries had been diagnosed with cancer and died shortly after a short battle. And Mrs. Dorries hadn’t been seen by anyone since, only in the garden or through the windows. Except by me. My parents often worked late and Mrs. Dorries, only a few streets away from our own, would look after me. Even then I didn’t see her too often. She’d let me in, ask how school was then give me a sandwich, crisps and some biscuits on a plastic plate shaped like a flower petal. Then she’d give me the remote to watch TV and then she’d retreat upstairs to her room. She’d come back downstairs to speak to my parents when they came to pick me up, and that was that. One day though, coming out of the bathroom I saw that one of the usually closed doors on the upstairs landing was open. Curiosity getting the better of me, I peeked in. And it was a room dedicated to wigs, even Mr. Dorries old wig. I told one of the people in class the next day and Jace had overheard. And now here we were. They had offered an exchange of friendship and being included in their gang if I could steal one of Mrs. Dorries wigs for each of them, but especially Mr. Dorries wig. The Holy Grail. I was Indy and this was The Last Crusade. Against all instincts, I’d accepted the mission. And now here I was. I took a deep breath, and started to climb.
*
Mrs. Dorries didn’t often see the light of the morning these days. She didn’t often venture outside the house if she could avoid it. In fact, even if she thought hard about it, she couldn’t remember the last time she had stepped over the threshold of her front porch. Everyday, she woke up with the vague notion that today would be the day that she would go outside, even if it was just to the shop to pick up a carton of milk and a loaf of bread. But everyday, she failed to muster up the courage to do so. Instead, she would wake up around noon get herself a cup of tea and toast, read the papers and watch a bit of Lorraine Kelly that she’d recorded from that morning. Then she’d either wait for deliveries (groceries, clothes, whatever took her fancy now she’d learned how to use the internet) or wait for the delightful little McDonald’s boy Davie to come home from school where she’d babysit him until his parents came home. On the days she had neither, she would don one of her wigs, dress to the nine’s and go on an adventure on her own from the safety of her own house by picking up one of her husband’s old books and getting lost in its pages. Some days she was a reclusive pirate or a heroic hermit and other days she was secluded seductress, an isolated investigator or an acrophobic explorer. Then she’d get to the end of the book, take off the wig, put her nightie back on and remember she was alone. His books were the only items of her husband’s she’d kept, other than his wig, which she kept on the same mannequin head he used to keep it on. Everything else she had thrown away. It was too painful to walk from room to room and be reminded of her loss. No wonder Christopher Columbus had tried to sail off the edge of the world – what else would drive a man to such lengths unless the loss of the person he loved most?
Mrs. Dorries began her daily routine (it was a Saturday so no deliveries to come and no Davie) flicking through the bookshelf and her wig collection when she noticed something peculiar out of the window. It was Davie, climbing over her back fence dropping to the ground and crouching low, sneaking toward the house. Why he didn’t just use the front door, she didn’t know. Then it dawned on her and she made her way to the back door.
*
I landed on my feet like a cat, or rather a ninja – ninjas are cooler – and started to sneak toward the back door. I knew Mrs. Dorries would be in, but I just hoped she was sleeping. I knew she slept most hours of the day when she wasn’t looking after me or doing whatever else she did in the house. As I got closer to the back door I could feel the beady eyes of my potential gang mates burning into my back like an ant under a sun filled magnifying glass. The plan was simple, crawl through the cat-flap in the backdoor (weird because she no longer had a cat), sneak upstairs and grabs the wigs and get back downstairs. If she found me in the house, I had my excuse ready – my Mum asked me to come over and ask if you wanted to come out for dinner next week. She tried calling but there was no answer. It was the perfect excuse because she wouldn’t accept the invitation and wouldn’t question that fact she’d missed a call – her hearing was losing it’s touch in her old age plus she’d “gone a bit batty upstairs” as my Dad would say, so she’d have no problem buying that she hadn’t heard the phone ring.
As I approached the cat flap, I took a deep breath and started to make my way through. When I was halfway through, something happened that I hadn’t anticipated. The door swung open and I swung with it cracking my head on the bottom of the fridge and letting out a yelp not too dissimilar to the cat she probably once owned and caused Mrs. Dorries to jump back in fear and grab a nearby broom.
There was really no prepared excuse I had for this, I thought, as I heard the unmistakable sound of Jace, D-Boy, Sandy & Billy scarpering down the street and away from danger.
*
When Mrs. Dorries realized it was me coming through her cat flap she put the broom down and helped me through the last few inches and pulled me to my feet. She was remarkably strong for such an old lady. Grabbing a bag of frozen peas from the freezer she sat me down and pressed them to my forehead. There was already a large bump starting to show.
“Davie what on earth where you doing down there?” she asked.
My dinner invitation excuse wasn’t going to cut it. “Um, I….well ye see….the hing is…” I heard myself say. Great. Fucking great. Indiana Jones eat your fucking heart out.
She started to smile as I continued to stammer on, which was confusing, I thought maybe I should go get my head checked out, because I was pretty sure that was not the reaction most people have when they’ve just found a 10 year old boy sneaking into their kitchen through a cat flap. But she was definitely smiling. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Mrs. Dorries, why are ye smilin’?” I said.
“Because you’re just a sweetheart, do you know that?” she said.
The bump to the head had killed me. It had to have done. This was fucking mental. “Whit dae ye mean?”
She checked the bump and took the peas off then looked into my eyes, staring right into my soul. My guilty, wee, breaking and entering, arsehole of a soul.
“If you wanted to visit me on the weekends, you could have just asked! There’s no need to come and surprise me, although it was a nice idea. But look what you’ve done, you’ve hurt yourself,” she said smiling.
My Dad was right. Completely fucking batty. She had gone full Captain Jack Sparrow up top. But there it was my get out of jail-free card. “Och, it’s awrite Mrs. Dorries, I jist thought….”I stopped myself. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was because of the bump to the head or maybe it was because she just looked dead simple sitting there staring at me. Or maybe it was because any lie would be protecting the wee bastards I was trying to be pals with who just ran off and left me under the bus. Before I knew it I was telling her the whole sorry tale. How I was a right wee Billy no mates in school and they’d offered to be my friends and let me join their gang if I did a series of tasks which included throwing my neighbours garden furniture over the fence, stealing a toy police car from the newsagents and finally stealing her wigs and most terrible of all her husband’s wig. She sat and listened to the entire story without saying a word. Then she stood up walked away toward the kitchen door. I felt sick. I thought for sure she was going to phone my parents and grass me in, but she didn’t. She got to the door, turned round and smiled at me, beckoning me to follow her. “Come with me.”
I got up and followed her out of the kitchen and upstairs.
*
I still wasn’t sure what was happening, but I was starting to feel that I wasn’t going to get into trouble, which I was half relieved, half guilty about. We walked up the stairs and into the wig room. Now I was starting to get a little scared. Maybe this was my punishment. Maybe this was how she got her wigs; bumping off wee boys that have been bastards to her and keeping their hair. I started to feel sick again when she turned away from the wig wardrobe and looked at me.
“Right, Davie. On you go. Pick one.”
Whit? I stared at her. “Whit?”
“Whichever one you want, pick it. Preferably one with a fringe to cover that horrible bump you’ve got. On you go.”
I had no idea what was happening, but I stepped forward and started to flick through the wigs over the watchful eye of Mrs. Dorries. Finally, I settled on a blue curly one. It was my favourite colour and I could never get my hair to go that cool 80s curly way that I liked from the movies. I pointed at it and she picked it up and put it on my head. It fit perfectly. After she fit the wig on my head, she picked one for herself and put it on.
“There you go. You’re in my gang now Davie. You don’t need those wee shits for pals. And don’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing just because some wee pricks have asked you too.”
My mouth went slack-jawed. I had never heard Mrs. Dorries speak like that before. Or swear. She smiled and winked at me. I smiled back.
“Thanks Mrs. Dorries.” I adjusted my wig and looked at the both of us in the mirror. We looked a weird pair. I started laughing and so did Mrs. Dorries.
“Now, I don’t know about you, but it’s almost lunchtime and I’m hungry. What do you say, food?”
“Aye, on ye go. Whit have ye got in the kitchen?”
Mrs. Dorries paused for a moment then smiled. “Why don’t we go out for a change, eh?”
My mouth went slack-jawed again, which caused Mrs. Dorries to give me another wink and the pair of us went downstairs and left the house, Mrs. Dorries breathing in the air like she was tasting it for the first time.
This short story originally appeared in The Shadow People Won’t Take Us Alive & Other Lost Souls.