icklestories

Today I finished another short tale for my writing course. Bit of a cliché I know but I'm quite pleased with it. Have a read for yourself.

Another slightly longer tale, inspired by a passage read on the Creative Writing course at the Media Museum - Tick This Box.

Bit longer than an icklestory, a paragraph written in response to seeing a piece of archive film footage: Bradford Street Scene, 1903.

I didn't see him much then. Occasionally in the neighbourhood. More often in the school football section of the local paper.

Meanwhile, we went off to big school. Without him, the rest of us just looked ordinary, so football seemed less and less important.

Him being younger, he stayed at Juniors when the rest of us left, winning more games, more cups, building a name for himself.

On the scrap heap at 50. Where would he find another job? There were bills to pay. Still, the £650,000 a year pension would tide them over.

It was after 11 and he was all out of fiction. His tales had all drained away with his last drop of Ricard. Certainly pastis best.

Proud he had trained the cat to wait, at a respectful distance, til ALL the food had hit the bowl. Another productive morning.

He knew she wouldn't appreciate it. But he did it anyway. Those teeny toothbrushes that get right between your teeth? Posted her a boxful.