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From Unfit to Fit by A.C. Brokenshire

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  Stark naked, I shivered. Outside from where I waited, armed soldiers simulated warfare.   They scurried around a network of excavated practice trenches. It was almost my turn for a three-hour physical examination in a dungeon like, military tent at Higher Barracks, Exeter which boasted one single antique stove down its far end. ‘You’re next, Drake,’ an officer instructed a recruit, who was close enough in front of me that I enjoyed his body warmth and could reach around his torso for extra, if needed.   Drake dutifully peeled off the line, as more men behind me shuffled forward. I was at the front.   ‘Open wide,’ the medic said. ‘Ahhhh,’ said Drake as the medic peered into his mouth.   I made a mental note of this as it was a sensible response. I took his place, then was told, ‘Up on the scales.’ I stood as tall as my five foot seven could reach.   The medic dropped a measurement bar to my crown and extended a tape measure from the floor...
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A recollection of a life changing event. by Aileen Cleave

     I remember my drive south.  I remember my elation, my anxiety, my hopes and my doubts.   It was 1983 and we were returning to live in London, now a family of five distinctly different from the excited, carefree newly-weds who made the same journey northward 13 years previously. We loved the North;  my husband, a Londoner borne and bred, especially so.  He loved the openness of the people, and their  genuine interest in others,he loved the easy access to beautiful countryside, and, inevitably,  the low cost of living, especially of housing.  But this was the early eighties and the recession that was to devastate so many the length and breadth of the country, was already wreaking havoc with companies, jobs and livelihoods in the North East. It seemed to happen overnight.  One day our company was doing so well, life was good, then quite suddenly no-one had money for home improvements, our company went to the wall and tough decisio...
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The Club Card an anecdote by Aileen Cleave

 The Club Card The broadleaf  trees I love so much are stark and bare, their naked branches reaching upwards to a grey sky, the air is  chilly and the atmosphere over all would be decidedly bleak but for the warmth of the Christmas lights,  the excitement and anticipation of the crowds filling the shops, and the unmistakable and distinct character of the welcoming British pub. However, a visit to the supermarket is unavoidable, we must make our contribution to the festivities. What seems like many years ago when we resided here in good old Blighty, we had a Club Card, a Tesco Club Card, I remember it well.  It didn’t seem to be an enormous advantage back then, but a quick journey through the crowded aisles of this local branch, reveals a totally different story now. Just on wine alone, already an exorbitant price to our Spanish eyes, the difference is huge.  My husband is on a mission.  We need to find and reinstate our Club Card.  I look at him a...
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The Shooter. a short story by Charles Roberts

            The robbery had gone well, they’d left all the jewellery, that was harder to get rid of, and just taken the money, Johnny estimated that there was about two million in used notes all neatly bundled into thousands.   The gang had returned to the disused warehouse, they used as a base to split the money up, then go their separate ways.           They had split the money up five ways and the other four had gone into another room to eat and get a drink, Johnny stayed with the money, not because he didn’t trust any of the others, he just wasn’t hungry or thirsty, besides they could see each other through the open door.   The shortest of the four stood and walked to the open door looking at Johnny suspiciously though half closed eyes. “Who sent you?   Who do you work for?” the man asked as he walked into the room where Johnny leant against a large table covered in neat piles of bankn...
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I remember Millbrook College - Short story by Mongolita

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I remember attending classes in Millbrook College in the unforgettable place of Liverpool. I was lucky and grateful that these courses were financed by the Liverpool City Council and I received a humble remuneration for attending. I have fond memories of this city with its beautiful, warm and welcoming people.   The aim of the course was to learn English in a year. There were about twenty young adults in the class, the majority were Chilean who couldn't speak much English. In the course of a year some of the ladies became my life-long friends.  There were days my brain felt like it was going to explode. I felt exhausted from listening and speaking English, eight hours a day, five days a week. Although each lesson would last forty-five minutes they seemed to last longer.      The class had one break in the morning, one in the afternoon and in between, an hour for lunch. This time was the chance to rest our brains, relax and talk in our ...
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The Encounter A short story by Charles Roberts

            I remember that I were walking home from the pub along the canal bank when I saw this bright light hanging over the water, so bright it was that I had to almost shut my eyes.   Something made me stop walking and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even lift my arm to shield my eyes from the light.   That’s when I saw them, there was two of them, and they was standing on the towpath in front of me.   They had long spindly legs ending in feet like a cows, sort of hooves, they had rounded bodies and their heads was round as well.   I couldn’t see a mouth or nose but they had big round eyes, well they looked like eyes, but they was all blue and they was looking at me I felt that they was undressing me.   They had two arms, but didn’t have hands as we know them, they had like claws or pincers, just the two on the end of each arm; they was about five feet tall.         ...
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My funeral By Charles Roberts

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            Look at ‘em all, gathered round my grave like wasps round an open jam jar.   Fifty per-cent I either didn’t know or hated their guts, the other fifty per-cent hated my guts, but one of those bastards murdered me, stopped me from breathing, bumped me off, finished my life, suddenly and completely; well not suddenly, but slowly, a bit at a time.   Was it in my early morning tea?   My breakfast?   If it was then it must have been that gold digging bitch of a wife of mine.   My drink of tea at work? Slowly poisoning me over time.           No subtlety in it, no treading softly least they crushed my dreams.   Just stetting out to rid the world of my earthly body the best way they could without bringing suspicion on themselves. And as for that eulogy, the bitch must have hired some out of work hack of an actor to spout all that bullshit about me; becau...
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