Tales and Stories

As a small child I was always taught not to tell tales, or tall stories. For several years now I have been doing just the opposite. I'd like to thank all those lovely people who have sat and listened and especially those who have given me praise and encouragement.

A brave and clever man I met a few years ago always said that writing should be "put out there." He insisted there was no point in putting it away in a drawer where no-one could see it. It takes courage, but I have tried to keep this wisdom in mind, and this blog is my way of trying to follow his advice.

My writing covers a wide range of topics and ranges from humorous to quite dark in tone, so I hope you will find something that you like. They say in Wales, "If you don't like the weather, then wait a minute." Well, if you don't like a story here, just scroll down a little and find another.

I have thought of writing this blog for several years and now I've finally taken the plunge I hope you enjoy it.

A lady serving the tea before one of my talks asked "You're not going to be boring, are you?" I promise if I see your eyes glaze over I will try something different.

Secrets

Lily Jameson watched the bin man locate her bin onto the back of the lorry. As it tilted and rumbled she thought of its contents falling into oblivion. The bin man would never realise the memories its contents held.

Lily Jameson thought of the wide pink ribbon around the ten red roses he had brought her, now in the back of the bright orange lorry, soon to be compost.

The Sunday paper parcel of chicken bones would soon be incinerated. He loved chicken; fried chicken, chicken nuggets, southern fried, but favourite of all was his Sunday roast.

Lily always served it with all the trimmings, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, sage & onion, real gravy made from the juices in the roasting tin, not that stuff in a box.

She could remember his expression as he tucked in that last Sunday. Pure contentment. She knew he’d enjoy it. No question.

            “Ice cream or tinned fruit for afters?”

            “No thanks, I’ll just chew on that second chicken leg.”

A conversation they’d regularly had for a lifetime of Sundays, but no more...

A scrap of paper in his shirt pocket left out for the wash. It was so nearly tossed in the bin. She thought of parking tickets, train tickets, leaflets that she had previously discarded from his pockets without a second thought. What was different? Why had she read it?

 “Please ring 67723, Annie” it read. Perhaps the plea struck a chord. She tucked it into her pocket for later.

“Annie Jameson,” came the chirpy reply to her dialling the number later that afternoon.

She was really chatty and they met for coffee the following day.  

They had so much in common, what with their surnames being the same, and only living a few streets away, AND both being married to the same man!

After a few weeks Lily worked it all out. It would all be down to the second chicken leg.

After carving the chicken and serving dinner as usual, she doctored the second leg keeping it quite separate. Annie worked at the chemist and knew what to use.
At one point her heart skipped a beat as he stopped eating and studied the leg intently. Then he took a deep breath, a large bite and recommenced chewing.

Then, when he’d finished eating they went for a car ride.

            “Feel really drowsy now,” he said.  “Don’t know why.”

            “Its probably all that chicken,” said Lily casually.

Annie met them in the forest picnic area where Lily had played as a child. His mouth dropped open in surprise to see the two of them together. He’d never guessed over all those weeks they’d been planning.

They’ll never find him now.

Lily and Annie meet regularly for coffee and a chat, get on really well, but Lily never cooks chicken for Sunday lunch.

                                                                                              Copyright Meg Gurney