An Ordinary Life: Short Stories
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I devoured travel books from the library, watched every documentary on the telly. In my mind I floated over the Serengeti in a balloon, climbed the pyramids, and lazed on icing-sugar beaches in the Maldives. I almost skipped back home. Turning the key, I smiled. Bert would never be a champagne and roses man.
BBC Radio 4 - Elizabeth Taylor Short Stories
When I entered the kitchen I saw the big, brown teapot set on the table. Two portions of fish and chips were warming with the plates in the oven. Mavis pursed her lips when she saw the pregnant young woman walk into the tearoom clutching the hand of a chubby toddler, followed by a man wrestling a double-buggy through the narrow entrance. And not everyone wants a big gap between babies.
Go take their order and try to be nice. Her excitement was so infectious, Mavis wanted to look. His stomach heaved at the sight of a satin camisole flung onto a half-eaten plate of haggis. Chloe broke in. All he wanted was to be away from this hot room. To be outside with the cold, Scottish rain on his face. Or back home safe with Sarah and the kids. As he staggered down the corridor, he heard a familiar voice coming from one of the treatment rooms.
He peered through the half-open door. Kevin collapsed. A tight band of pain squeezed his heart.
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Thanks Linda. Glad you like the stories. I like the ending of the last one. The grass is not always greener! Thanks for the great comment John.
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I think people do like reading about ordinary people, who have maybe just a little a bit more drama and excitement in their lives than we do. I am going to work on injecting more human emotions and challenges into my science fantasy and paranormal stories.
Congratulations on receiving first prize for each of the stories, Cynthia! I especially like the last one. The ending is a surprise in several ways. Cynthia, I really enjoyed each of these flash fiction tales. I can see why they were all winners. I do like to read a bit of everything and in the past mystery and crime novels have been right up there for me.
Now my life is so busy and with writing myself, flash fiction stories of any genre are my preferred reading. I even like to write a few when I'm not concentrating on poetry. Although I do enjoy some good fantasy or science fiction too I find the majority of people do like stories about ordinary people and their ordinary lives that they can relate to in some way. However, if all writers only wrote about their experiences and what they knew things would get pretty dull in the literary world. Good work.
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When I nodded, he handed me an envelope. He never could duck fast enough. Four Under Four The bell over the door chimed to herald new customers. Freda looked up and smiled as she watched them find an empty table. As she approached she saw Kelly grab a large envelope and slide out a photograph. Mavis opened her mouth.
Before she could say anything, a woman rushed in the door and ran to hug Kelly. That stupid car of mine.
An Ordinary Life
Is everything OK? Confused, Mavis dropped her pad. Siobhan grinned as she picked it up for her. It was only luck those hurtful, petty words had not come out of her mouth. Highland Fling Kevin retched as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His father, James, was a bank manager who took his wife, the former Gertrude Davison, and children from one town to another, as promotions and transfers arose.
An outsider by family circumstance and religion in a predominantly Roman Catholic country, Mr. Trevor learned at an early age to observe quietly from the sidelines, a skill that served him well as an Irish writer describing the British, and as an expatriate looking across the Irish Sea to the towns and villages of his youth. After graduating from Trinity College, Dublin, in , he taught at a preparatory school in Northern Ireland. In , he married Jane Ryan, whom he had met at Trinity. She and their son Patrick survive him, as do another son, Dominic Cox, and a granddaughter.
In secondary school, Mr. Trevor had begun sculpting in wood, and his growing proficiency led to a job in England teaching art at schools in Rugby and Taunton as he developed a sideline carving statues for churches. He began showing in exhibitions and, working in wood, terra cotta and metal, he embraced abstraction. He also dropped his last name, to avoid confusion with his identity as a sculptor, although that chapter in his life was already drawing to a close.
His abstract work, he later said, dissatisfied him because of its remoteness from human beings. The job left him plenty of spare time, which he used to write fiction. As a writer, Mr. For the next half-century, most of it spent in the Devon countryside — he most recently lived near Shobrooke — Mr. He offers a complete picture of life on that island. In , Mr.