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Garrie Fletcher

~ writing and all that

Garrie Fletcher

Tag Archives: short story

Christmas Cheer

22 Wednesday Dec 2021

Posted by fletcherski in writing

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Christmas, fiction, short stories, short story, writing

It’s the season of giving, so here are a few snippets of Fletcher Christmas life from over the years – enjoy.

*

Turkey Farming

Dad liberated twelve turkeys. It was mid-December, and he was out of work. He borrowed Jez Bailey’s Bedford van, and Jez, and drove to a farm just past Harlestone Firs early one morning. Armed with bolt cutters, sacks and torches they broke in, helped themselves. Terrified poultry blocked out the noise of the farmer waking up, thudding down his stairs and retrieving his shotgun. The van was parked, side doors slid back, and rear doors flung wide, next to the large barn. The sacks forgotten, they grabbed the birds’ legs and flung them into the van. Fifteen were inside when the farm lights went on. Dad and Jez froze. The turkeys gobbling and gabbling intensified; eyes like black pearls set in alien grey-blue skin, focused solely upon them. Jez ran to the driver’s door as Dad slammed shut the rear doors. A shotgun blast tore over the van and the remaining turkeys bolted for freedom; the silent night broken with petrified squawking.  Grey and black feathers snowed down. Jez scraped through the gearbox as Dad leapt head-first into the van. Half-way back to town hey slid the doors shut and stopped laughing.

Christmas Fishes by Juliet Fletcher

Dad never divulged his initial plan, just said it was Christmas. Jez took five and Dad took seven as it was his idea. Three escaped. I imagine them living out their days in the forest, however unlikely that is. The biggest bird was for us. The others given to the pensioners on the estate. 

Mum woke to a very confused and angry turkey strutting around the yard and said, if you think I’m killing that you’ve got another think coming. Pap, who’d worked for years as a butcher, was too busy to come round but offered to talk Dad through the process of killing and draining over the phone. Mum needed some fresh air and left him to it. When she returned, the yard was covered in feathers and Dad was washing out a bloody bucket in the sink. The bird hung in the small brick shed for just under two weeks. I wasn’t born when this happened, but I’ve absorbed more and more of the story at every telling. This story has changed over the years, as stories do, but the thing that hasn’t is that it was the best turkey they ever had.

*

All Wrapped Up for Christmas

There were chocolates on the tree in the shape of reindeer, snowmen, Christmas trees, presents, all wrapped in festive reds, greens and golds. There were chocolates on the Christmas tree, and we coveted them, touched them, imagined them melting in our mouths. There were chocolates on the Christmas tree, and we were not allowed to touch them, not until Christmas Day. Not until Mum gave the word. There were chocolates on the Christmas tree and then, the low hanging ones, the ones we could reach, were gone. Have you eaten the chocolates off the tree? Not a question, more a statement of fact. I protested my innocence as did my brother, but he breathed lies. Punishment was swift, a hand raised a smack delivered once, twice, three times. The pain faded but the injustice didn’t. Sam, the boxer dog, looked on, eyes wide. 

A shadow hung over the next two days that was swiftly diffused by the glare of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I knew Lee had done it. That’s what he did. He lied and cheated, but food, presents, food, TV, food, family, games and food smothered the nagging in my stomach.

Boxing Day was bright and fresh, and yesterday’s presents were waiting to be played with. Sam was in the yard to stop him begging at the oven. I got washed and dressed and took some cold turkey out to him. He’d pooed on the slabs; Mum would not be pleased. He turned his doleful eyes towards me and sniffed at the air. I placed the meat at his feet and as he was eating it, I played with his velvet brown ears rubbing them between my thumb and forefinger. I looked over at his dark poo. Flecked within it were red, green and gold pieces of chocolate wrappers.

*

Where I Belong

Christmas Dinner is a big deal in our house. The bird has to be ordered, collected, prepped and cooked along with enough vegetables to feed the street, not just the four of us. We never have people around for Christmas Dinner, but family and friends pop in and out before, during and after. Booze fuels the day. Food needs to be consumed in large quantities to stave off an early alcoholic peak which is a real threat considering Mum and Dad start drinking at breakfast. Mum favours wine, white wine predominantly, sometimes sparkling, but red and even the odd spirit can make an appearance. Dad sticks to bitter, or if he’s feeling daring, stout. I will join in, later, but not to their Olympic standards – I’m strictly amateur. Dinner time is announced, adjusted and announced again to incorporate guests and dashes to uncle Loz’s in the next street. The food is always incredible. Turkey roasted and glazed to moist perfection, the potatoes’ fluffy contents sealed within a crispy shell, carrots firm and sweet, fresh bread and onion stuffing, chipolatas wrapped in bacon, even the cabbage is edible.

At some point, there will be a moment between me and Dad. He’ll place his large hand on my shoulder, struggle to find the words, squeeze until I fear my collar bone will crack and then he’ll say, he’s a good lad. Isn’t he, Shug? Mum will call him daft, but later on, when the plates are just bones and gravy, she’ll corner me, bleary-eyed, and tell me how she loves me. 

There’s never an argument in our house on Christmas Day. There are wild claims, exaltations of friendship, debts highlighted, claims of tenderness and love, when the alcohol has marinated the heart, gratitude for gifts and favours given, all sprinkled with sworn warm affection. 

In the lounge, the TV will mumble in the background, a disjointed rhythm track to Dad’s snoring, and Mum will disappear upstairs for ‘five minutes kip.’ Hours later she’ll busy herself in the kitchen cutting cold meats, bread, cheese, setting out jars of pickles and chutney, crackers and cake. Mum will feel bad for missing the Queen’s speech and Dad will tell me for the hundredth time that Steve McQueen did his own stunts in The Great Escape. Outside, it will be black as coal with the smudge of mist and the hope of snow. Inside the heating will be up full, damn the expense, Mum will be on the phone to Pap going over the Christmas meal in minute detail, successes and failures, and I will know exactly where I am and where I belong.

Overhear

03 Thursday Oct 2019

Posted by fletcherski in Art, Birmingham Literature Festival, Short Stories, writing

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audio, Birmingham, Birmingham Literature Festival, download, fiction, free, Ikon Gallery, short story, uk

It’s the perfect supplement to the Barry Flanagan exhibition that is currently on at the Ikon Gallery in Birmingham. Yes, you’ve guessed, it’s my short story, Ikon. Simply get the Overhear App, visit the Ikon Gallery, and download an audio file of me reading the story at the Ikon. Sorted.

Songs for the Elephant Man

22 Monday Jul 2019

Posted by fletcherski in Short Stories, Short Story, Writers, writing

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Mantle Lane Press, short story, writing

My story, Electricity, will be published shortly as part of this wonderful anthology from Mantle Lane Press.

It’s a excellent title for the collection as all the stories are about or misfits. However, thanks to Matt Berry’s Year of the Rabbit on Channel 4 I can now only ever see the Elephant Man as a camp thespian on the make.

Submerged.

19 Tuesday Feb 2019

Posted by fletcherski in Art, creativity, Drawing, Short Story, writing

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Book, Illustration, Jessamy Hawke, short story, Submerged

My latest short book, submerged, is due to be released in early March and I’ve just had a look at some of artist and illustrator Jessamy Hawke’s initial ideas.

These, as you can see, are rough sketches, but Jessamy’s finished work is rather wonderful. I’m looking forward to seeing the finished cover.

You can check out her work including book covers, illustrations, and comissions at her website here.

SOLO Fest

03 Sunday Feb 2019

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Coventry, fiction, reading, readings, short story

My first reading of this year will be at SOLO Fest in Coventry at the Warwick Arts Centre at 18:00. I was picked for one of the open mic slots before the main performances and will be reading a short story from my Night Swimming collection. Many of us are feeling a bit, Mick Hucknall, these days, so you’ll be pleased to hear that the open mic slots are free to attend if money is indeed too tight to mention. But what is SOLO Fest? The Warwick Arts Centre says:

“SOLO Fest is a four day festival that showcases three captivating theatre shows by solo performers. Audiences have the opportunity to see two shows each evening, along with FREE pop-up performances by local artists, and post-show gossip events.

One person shows depend on the combination of imaginative writing with skilled and versatile performance and stagecraft. Despite there only being one person on stage, the best solo shows can transport you far from the theatre into another world.

We have handpicked three of the best solo shows in the UK today, by top young artists Keisha Thompson, Tatty Hennessy and Toby Thompson.”

That all sounds pretty awesome to me.

I’ll be going to both performances that evening, I Wish I Was A Mountain, and A Hundred Words For Snow, and hanging around for the post show gossip. I’ll even have some books on me if you fancy buying a copy. Please come up and say hello – I won’t bite.

Click on this link to check out the full line-up on the Warwick Arts Centre website.

Reading at Country Voices

09 Sunday Dec 2018

Posted by fletcherski in writing

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books, Country Voices, fiction, reading, short story, short story collection, Shropshire, Telford

This coming Saturday, the 15th of December, I will be reading at Country Voices, the Meadow Inn, Ironbridge, Shropshire. I’ve a twenty-minute slot so I’m hoping to read a short story in its entirety. At the moment, I’m thinking of reading Joyce’s Garden which sounds quite idyllic but isn’t. Joyce’s garden is yet to find a home, but I’m really pleased with it, and hopefully, the crowd will be too as I’m bringing some books to sell – when I find where I’ve hidden them.


If you’re lucky I may even smile. No promises.

The Meadow Inn looks lovely, I’ve never been, but the photos are excellent, and it looks over the river Severn in Ironbridge. Look, here’s a picture montage followed by a map.

The Aerial view should be handy for those of you who are parachuting in. 
Dead easy to get to.

If you do make the journey please say hello and buy a book. Did I mention I’ll be selling books?

You don’t need to jump into the River Severn to fully appreciate this book.


City Voices – Wolverhampton

10 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by fletcherski in Poetry, Reading, writing

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City Voices, Poetry, short story, The Lighthouse, Wolverhampton

City-Voices-Website

I hadn’t been to City Voices in a while. It’s a bit of a trek for me, travelling from south Birmingham to Wolverhampton, but I’m glad I braved public transport and read there last night – I even sold a few books!

If you’ve never been, it’s based in the Lighthouse which is a three-minute walk from the train station and housed inside the industrious Chubb building. As ever, Simon Fletcher, no relation, is the convivial host who sets the scene and puts everyone at ease. I’m not sure how long Simon has been running City Voices, but whenever I’ve been there the quality of the readings is always of a high standard and last night was no exception.

 

lighthouse

Sadly, my memory is bloody awful, and I can’t remember the names of those who read last night. The only names on the listing are mine and Fergus McGonigal’s – Fergus had to cancel, and Simon stepped in – but the quality of the writing and the reading from the three poets were very high. If anyone reading this can tell me the names of the poets leave me a comment below, and I’ll amend this accordingly.

The reading that stood out for me was a collection of poems from a creative writing graduate that was all based on a mysterious death in Hagley Woods in 1941. The poems were dark, evocative and original and stayed with me long after she’d finished reading. This mysterious death still generates graffiti to this day. This is from Wikipedia:

Who put Bella in the Wych Elm? is a graffito that originated in 1944 after a woman’s corpse was discovered by several children inside a wych elm in Hagley Wood (located in the estate of Hagley Hall, Worcestershire, England). Among other places the graffiti has appeared on the Hagley Obelisk near to where woman’s body was discovered. The victim, whose murder was estimated to have occurred in 1941, remains unidentified.

1280px-Bella_graffitiThe next City Voices is in February and will be love themed, with guests including Kuli Kohli, Yvette Layne and Bert Flitcroft.(Pancakes will be on sale in Lock Works for Shrove Tuesday).

City Voices info can be found here.

2015 STORGY Short Story Competition

24 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by fletcherski in competitions, Short Stories, Short Story

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2015, 5000 words, £500 Prize, Paul McVeigh, short story, Short Story Competition, Storgy

A short story competition judged by the marvelous, Paul McVeigh. Get those entries off now!

We are pleased to announce that the 2015 STORGY Short StoryCompetitionwill be judged by critically acclaimedauthor

Paul McVeigh

paul

Paul McVeigh’s short fiction has been published in the New Century New Writing, Rattle Tales 2 & 3 and Unbraiding the Short Story anthologies, Harrington’s Fiction Journal, Flash Flood Journal, The Stinging Fly and been commissioned by BBC Radio 4. He has read his work on BBC Radio 5, at the Belfast Book Festival, the International Conference on the Short Story in Vienna and the Cork International Short Story Festival. He represented the UK short story for The Brittish Council in Mexico this year.

He is currently working on a short story collection and his first novel was published in April this year and was shortlisted for The Guardian’s ‘Not The Booker’ Prize.

Paul is the Co-Founder of the London Short Story Festival and Associate Director of Word Factory, The UK’s…

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Short and Sweet

06 Tuesday Oct 2015

Posted by fletcherski in Birmingham Library, Birmingham Literature Festival, Event, Short Stories, Short Story

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Birmingham, Birmingham Literature Festival, Birmingham Rep, fiction, Heart FM, Performance, Rachel New, reading, Short Fiction, short story, The Door Space, uk

Fletcher’s on the road again!

As part of this year’s Birmingham Literature Festival,  I shall be taking part in the Short and Sweet: Short Fiction Salon and reading a new short story. This event is hosted by fiction writer and Heart Breakfast presenter Rachel New and is Free!

Fiction writer and Heart Breakfast presenter Rachel New.

Fiction writer and Heart Breakfast presenter Rachel New.

So, treat yourself to an earful of fiction and come down to The Door Space at the Rep, next to the Library for a 6pm start.

All details and how to book (remember its free) can be found here.

Raven soars.

14 Friday Nov 2014

Posted by fletcherski in Art, Comics, comissions, New Birmingham Library, Raven

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Anya Jung, Art, Birmingham, Birmingham Literature Festival, comic book, Comic book script, Drawing, free, Kings Heath, Raven, short story, uk, writing

At last, after weeks of scribbling, typing, retyping, sketching, revising, colouring, conferring, editing and nail biting, Raven is here. Has it been worth the wait? Oh yes.

Raven

Anya Jung and I were commissioned, what seems ages ago, by those wonderful people at Writing west Midlands to produce a comic strip as part of the Birmingham Literature Festival.

The initial idea was to produce a graphic novel over the space of the festival, a mere ten days. We quickly abandoned that idea. For Anya to draw the number of pages to make a graphic novel, to the high standard that she does, we would need at least a year and whilst it would be wonderful to have a year long festival there simply wasn’t the budget.

So, we decided to do a short story in comic book form, a mere seven pages long. Seven pages is not a lot, but I hope you will agree we’ve crammed quite a lot in and created a story with a punch, an incredibly strong look and a resonance that stays with you long after reading.

Raven started with a  conversation between Anya and I as I drove us back to Kings Heath. We spoke about the power of art, the need for creativity and the loss of innocence, it all sounds a bit pompous, but that’s what we did.

Raven3

I very quickly decided that I wanted to write a story about a woman returning to Birmingham after a long time away. I thought it would be something about childhood and creativity, about travelling home to rediscover something she’s long forgotten or has chosen to forget and it sort of is and it sort of isn’t.

I was shocked by the ending of my story. Not by the nature of it but by the fact that I never saw it coming. I don’t want to get all writers are mystics on you, because we’re not, but I won’t lie to you, I never planned for it to end that way.

I shared the story with Anya and to my great relief she loved it, phew!

I then set about translating my tale from a short story into a comic book script which was not as easy as I’d thought it would be, far from it. All that lovely description and atmosphere that I’d built up through the careful selection of words I had to let go of. and hand it over to the artist. Instead of describing the way the city looked from the rain spattered train carriage you just type: Frame 1, a train travels across a large viaduct that cuts through the city. Gripping stuff.

So, I had to rethink the way that I work and to rediscover the story I’d written by looking at what needs to be said that can’t be shown. Eventually the script came together and I handed it over to Anya.

Raven2

Anya mocked up a rough layout of what the story would look like. She nervously handed over a hand drawn A5 booklet; she wasn’t best pleased with the work it contained, which was odd as the work was stunning. This is great! I thought, if this is what her rough stuff looks like we’re onto a winner and we were.

Over the ten days of the festival Anya was based in the wonderful Library of Birmingham. People were invited to stop and chat to her as she completed the pages and many of you did, we even had a Q and A session in the library entrance! During the course of completing the pages Anya made some alterations which meant I had to tweak bits of text here and there. We sent work back and forth and slowly it all came together.

This isn’t how comics are usually produced, it’s just the way we did it.

Anyway, enough yakking from me. Why don’t you click on this link and read Raven for yourself? When you’ve read it please pop back and let me know what you think of it.

Cheers

p.s Here’s the first page of Raven. Click on it to read the full version.

Raven 1st page

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