Janey kneels by the headstone and lights a candle. Her demeanour tells George she knows he’s watching.
She hasn’t always done it, George would say if he talked to people. At first, she scared him she’d turned so wild. He might have expected it, given what he’d done. But he was too happy she’d returned.
Never lasted, though. Every time the leaves turn, Janey needs a boost. One of them gave her back her conscience.
She still looks like his Janey, but with every woman he’s put in her grave, Janey’s turned. They may well come for him this time.
If I included shorter stuff in the Top 3, Shared Journey would definitely be in it. But I don’t, and my favourites are all stories I wrote for Nortina’s fabulous Moral Mondays (I suggest you check it out if you’re not already playing) :
This month is going to be a bit tricky, because it’s the summer holidays and I’m preparing an international move. I’ll try to write at least one 100-word story a week, though, otherwise the August Top Three is going to be a sad affair.
‘Because he sees you walking in and knows he’ll get away with it. Because it adds to his collection of pictures of Western bimbos who thinks they’re superstars.’
‘He said it’s a traditional character, so maybe you can’t read it.’
‘Superstar. In traditional Chinese? You know, I hope it says idiot.’
‘Shouldn’t you know?’
‘Why? I was born here. And my grandparents came from Hong Kong. Mandarin is as foreign to me as it is to you.’
Here’s something a little bit longer – a story of mine which was one of five winners of the 1000 Words flash competition in December 2014. Since 1000words.org has disappeared and my story with it, I’ll put it up here. In a way, the success I had with it encouraged me to start the blog. so it is relevant.
‘The ground is frozen. I’ll burn more calories than I’ll bring home,’ he protests when I ask him to go digging for roots.
‘It’s that or starvation. Go right to the edge where the sun’s been warming the ground the longest. Should be softer there.’
I hand him the hammer and one of the nine-inch nails. They’re coming in useful, the nails. I insisted we take them when he said they’d be nothing but ballast.
He puts the tools into his pouch and slouches off. I stoke the fire and put another log on. I retrieve the blowgun. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’d better take care of the bait first. I wait for him to get settled by the edge. When I hear the pings of hammer hitting nail, I go after him. I pick up a rock. I never take my eyes off him, stay behind his back.
‘Sorry. I can’t keep feeding us both.’
He doesn’t have time to turn around before I bring down the rock. He slumps, tumbles over the edge and lands on the plateau beneath.
Don’t look back. Maxie’s sad eyes are following you; you won’t be able to walk away without her if you look.
It’s a good shelter. She’s a good, attractive dog. She’ll find a new home, no problem.
People do all sorts to muddle through. First, you sold the car, it bought a few months. Meant you could only take nearby jobs, though. Not that there’s many going spare farther away.
By giving away Maxie, you postponed the day when you can’t afford food again, but it will still come. Upside is, you won’t have to watch Maxie starve alongside you.
A blog of my new book project, an eightieth anniversary retracing of the famous 'crusade'; a protest march from Jarrow to London by unemployed workers in October 1936
