Home | Contest | Write A Book | Write Ebooks For Cash | Be A Travel Writer | Write Children's Books Write For Newspapers | Write An Ezine | Write A Blog | Writing Skills & Tips | Novel Writing Software Please take a moment to bookmark this site and join our free hot tips list. Read & Rate Our Writing Contest Entries! See what other people have written, and rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. This is an opportunity to view a wide variety of short stories and see what kind of original material is being submitted to us on a daily basis. After you rate an entry, you will be randomly redirected to another entry to rate. You may read and rate as many entries as you wish! The user-rating system is simply a fun way for writers to receive a public opinion of their work, and does not affect the judging for the cash prizes. If you wish to enter the contest, you may enter for free here. Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Mr A. Lewis “It’s time we got rid of the reminder of a cloth cap image. We have a master plan for the rejuvenation of the town and the next phase of seafront works is where those old fashioned candy-striped deck chairs are hired out”. As Bill read this, tears formed in his eyes. Shutting the tightly to fend off the emotion, a drop from each eye, ran down his face in parallel lines, like a tram track. This is my home, he thought, this is my life. Catching the number twelve bus, Bill watched his neighbourhood pass through the window, his head pressed against the glass like a small child; he felt the impact of each rise and fall of the suburbs. He watched adolescents pushing cigarettes to pre-teens, young mothers pushing prams whilst chatting on their mobile phones; a tramp slumped in a shop doorway offering a dog-eared copy of The Big Issue. He watched locals sit in stationary cars and sound their horns in frustration, as trams idled past full of tourists. On the seat in front of him, BFC ruled in orange marker pen, while proclamations of young lust had been carved lovingly into the leather of the seat next to him. In truth, Bill’s neighbourhood had passed away many years ago; this was now just the place he lived. The doors swung open and Bill descended the three steps slowly. He heard mutterings and tuts from the growing queue behind, but Bill went at his own speed, his own arthritic pace. As he stepped down onto the promenade, two young boys pushed past him, bumping and jostling him. Their branded trainers pounding the tarmac towards the arcade, loose chain jangling in their pockets. Behind him, a young man stopped to help a mother off the bus with her pram. Bill smiled; maybe all was not lost in the world. He approached the stretch of beach where the deck chairs were stored, paid a crisp five pound note to a tanned man who kindly set-up a deck chair for him. He lowered himself gingerly into the candy-striped deck chair and reached into his pocket to withdraw the small scrap of newspaper he had freshly torn from this morning’s Chronicle. Looking down he re-read the article and again a tear formed in his eye. Taking a pristine white handkerchief from his hip pocket, he slipped it beneath his glasses lens and vigorously rubbed the socket of his right eye until it turned red. The seafront was quiet in comparison to when he’d last made the effort to come here. It was the height of summer and he had been appalled and frightened by the overwhelming volume of people. His daughter Elizabeth had visited from London and brought her two children. They loved coming to the beach to build sandcastles, and throw stones at the waves as they broke and foamed in the shallows. Bill was glad when Lizzie finally took him home. That day with Lizzie and the grandchildren was the first time he’d been back to the beach since Ethel had died eight years to the day; he despised it as much as that day. In his twenties, he was handsome and suave. He’d worked most of the bars, clubs and cabaret establishments along the front; it was his life, his income and was how he met his wife. He was a host with a thousand one-liners who supplemented his income calling bingo for the septuagenarians in the Conservative Club hall. She was class, was beautiful; she glowed. He’d stand in front of audiences at The Pear Club and with microphone in hand announce her onto the stage. She’d twirl to the centre in her golden ball gown with incredible grace; transfixed, he’d watch as she span her honeyed web around him. This is our home, he’d think, this is our life. They’d been sat on the seafront, each in candy-striped deck chairs. It was one of the hottest days of the year and the beach teemed with painfully white sun worshippers. He had paid the fifty pence rental to a tanned man and gone to find an ice cream. When he returned sixty minutes later with his ice cream melting over his hand, Ethel was asleep. Not wanting to disturb her, he sat on the sand in the shade of her seated body and only when he’d finished did he look at her closely. He was angry he’d spent the final hour of her life, queuing at an ice cream stand. Now it was out of season and the preparations for next year had already begun, despite it being four or five months away. To his right, a shop front was being ripped apart and refitted, just as the store next door was being boarded up and estate agent signs placed on the façade. Lorries rumbled past carrying unwanted debris to be dumped, while cranes towered over buildings and swung large steel girders across the grey autumn sky. Directly in front of him was an old run-down building. Rusted scaffolding had been erected to preserve the remainder of the building, above the door was an old faded sign, it’s lettering faint and indistinct to all but Bill: The Pear Club. He began crying and the tears blurred his vision; the scaffolding melted away and the club was once again pristine and gleaming. Posters proclaimed acts of vibrant music and enchanting dance, of unique cabaret and a thousand one-liners. There was a buzz about the venue and the sound of laughter and applause echoed from within. Then, a figure appeared at the doorway in a golden ball gown, she lifted her hand and in a wave, cast her web towards him. He opened his hand and waved back, the shred of newspaper escaping his grasp, blew over his head and was gone. Slowly, Bill closed his eyes. This was my home, he thought, this was my life. people have rated it so far. is the current average. |
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