Dick Bullet – Private Dick

I got a call from this broad come August. Can’t complain because I can’t choose my clients. Said she got a case of the usual, good for nuthin’ hubby making excuses on where he kept going at night.

I’m Dick Bullet, private eye, got a cheating wife/husband and/or business partner then I’m the sap who sits outside of their house for days, hoping to snap up the incriminating evidence.

This Mrs Mallory may have been a goddess of the silver screen forty years ago, but Old Father Time is a mean old man and chips away at anybody’s good looks. Where she was once stunning with eyes sharp enough to pierce diamonds and legs slender than a snake, practically death and sex wrapped in one tight glove, now she was like a dried raisin, those dark eyes had gone greyer than a rain cloud, her hair was whiter than the north pole and her skin sagged worse than a mattress left out in a forest.

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Knit One, Purl One

She lays out the wool in evenly spaced bundles and polishes each button until it reflects her asphalt-grey iris. It’s a careful equation. Knit one, purl one. Soft wool yielding to hard needles. One tiny cardigan for the baby unit, one good deed to balance a bad one.

A wholesome baking smell fills the room as she clicks the needles in a steady rhythm. This is Margaret’s favourite time of day, the sun just beginning to filter through the curtains. This is when hope shines brightest, when the rest of the world is still asleep and her to-do list is already half-done. Reverend James will collect the cakes later, his soothing voice an antidote to the harsh one in her head. ‘Saint’ will drown out ‘Sinner’ for a few hours. ‘Thank you’ will banish ‘How could you?’ at least until darkness falls.

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Celestial Life

“Stop calling it a cult, mum! And stop calling me Beverley, I’m Vasanthi now”. Vasanthi didn’t like the defensiveness she heard in her voice as it rose to a squeak.

“Oh darling, I wish you’d just come home. You’ve had your fun now. I do get it… I had my spiritual awakening in Tibet when I was your age…” Vasanthi rolled her eyes as her mother continually

“… and I adored that time, but I came to my senses and I came home. Manchester University rang to confirm they’d hold your place in Computer …. “

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Vox Pop

Although my journalist’s style guide has a whole section on avoiding clichés, I’m excited to share with you my awesome journey towards local newspaper stardom. 

Earlier in the week prospects had seemed to be shifting downwards. An editorial encounter, at which I had intended to pitch an investigative project about vaping in schools, brought this well and truly home.

The drift of this went:

‘.…local rags can’t carry  reporters with airy, ill thought out ideas…..where’s the research? ..by election coming up….get out on the streets and ask people how they think life can improve …if anyone mention vapes, that’s a bonus for you. ’

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MY PERFECT LIFE?

Prison counsellor Richard Wilson peered through thick lens glasses at prisoner Wilf Watts, a small scrawny old man with a full head of silver hair, his eyes appearing open and honest. Wilf had been sentenced to four years for offences that lead to him being a local hero within the prison. Leaning forward Richard  asked,  ‘Would you like to explain the circumstances that led to you being here, Wilf?’

Wilf settled back in the armchair, thinking for a moment: ”It’s like this, you see my wife died last year. Wonderful women she was, my Margey. We were married for over forty years, she did everything for me. Sold our home as I couldn’t live there without her, bought myself one of those mobile homes and travelled all over. It is what she wanted. Found it a bit lonely to be honest.  Then some bugger stole it, I lost everything and had a hard time getting even a little bedsit. The police were useless, didn’t do a thing, the insurance company gave me the runaround.

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A Good Life

He stands on the corner of East Bank Way and Fabian Way, in the long winter shadow of Swansea Dockers Sports and Social Club, his tragic, asymmetrical body a cautionary tale of what might be.

The traffic is slow. It’s the usual blockage: cars, vans, buses and trucks, turning into Quay Parade, ignoring the yellow cross-hatched box that says to new drivers, “Do not enter unless your exit is clear”, but in the hurried world of nine o’clock deadlines, a warning to be ignored, along with the cheery horns of the oncoming traffic.

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Prompt for October 2025 – The Good Life

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 23.10.25.

TASK: ‘The Good Life’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘The Good Life’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.

Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 23rd October 2025. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 26.10.25, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.

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