Journal Saturday short stories

• Secrets of The Black Isle
   
  By Caroline Boobis 
   
  For the past two weeks our tiny island had been battered by the worst storm in a century and it had been impossible to receive the usual supplies. Our weekly trips to the pub on the mainland were out too, turning the quaint old cottage into a claustrophobic prison camp.
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• The Vicar
   
  By Patrick Belshaw 
  
  To begin with, people just thought he was different. That’s all. We didn’t hate him. Why would we? In many ways he was just an ordinary chap. Was even seen down the pub in the early days. Liked a pint, it seemed. Wore odd socks, it was true. And for some reason that nobody quite understood, he always had a bit of white in his collar; hence his nickname: The Vicar.
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• Durham Khaki
  
  By Betty Weiner 
   
  What upset her was how white he was. He’d got big, staring, light brown eyes and not much voice and he was so pale she reckoned he’d been really, really ill. Deep sockets under his eyes – charcoal shadows, she said.
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• Flat-pack
   
  By Lucy Hume
   
  Her head was forced down so that her chin was pressed to her chest, and her legs were bent and shaking uncontrollably. She had either to push on, or to roll out and let Erik fall, with the risk of causing him irreparable damage. With one final strain, she heaved against Erik’s weight and was just able to get him to the point at which gravity took its own hold so that he tipped easily into a standing position.
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• The Laugh
  
  By John M Tyson-Capper 
  
  We’re at my father’s funeral and my mother is laughing. This is unexpected. At first I thought she was crying, snorts of grief escaping through the hand she has across her mouth, but no she is definitely laughing.
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• Keeping Watch
   
  By Maureen C Bell 
   
  There had to be a watch. She had seen Mrs Markham put it in there. One last feel around. She had to be quick. There were other watches but not that one. Definitely no watch. 
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• The Lift
  
  By Gillian Jackson 
   
  Stepping out of the room was like opening an oven door, the heat engulfed me immediately. The windowless corridors were stuffy and airless, but I’d soon be out of here and it would probably be a long time before I returned to this particular hotel.
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• Roughing It
   
  By Kirsty Ferry
   
  By the time the sun had dropped completely behind the horizon, and the darkness had covered the countryside, the flap to Ben’s little room had been zipped and unzipped so many times that Helen had stopped counting at eight. In the morning, Joe estimated he had taken his son to the portaloo approximately thirteen times: but Ben disputed that, and felt it was more like fifteen times. 
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• Born Again Boy
   
  By GP Hildreth
   
  I suppose the end of my old life must have been this morning at nine o’clock when I walked from the door of the children’s home to the door of Mr Shepherd’s car. I’d walked to his car lots of times before, but this time was different.
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• The Egg Pool
   
  By Gary Duncan
   
  He smiled again. Not a perfect smile, she noted, the front teeth a little crooked, but that was okay, they were his teeth and she liked a man with his own teeth.
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