Miss Take

Missy was all about stuff. Looking for stuff, gathering stuff, organising stuff and dreaming of ways to procure more of it.

If anyone was having a clear out, she was onto it. “I’ll take that”, being her catchphrase. A broken lampshade left on the street – “I’ll take that”. A friend giving away an art easel with sticky oil paints – “I’ll take that”, despite having no intentions of ever painting. Leftovers at a potluck dinner “Ok if I take that?” while simultaneously whipping the half-eaten cherry pie into a Jiffy bag.  

Although she sulked about her nickname Miss Take but could hardly argue with it.

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Making Up For A Mistake

            ‘Sometimes I wish I was someone else.’

            Bob, having finally got Edna to talk about herself, hesitated then asked: ‘Do you feel…?’

            ‘Unwanted?’

They were in a pub in Peckham, both sipping warm beer, the nineteen-fifties three days from ending.

            ‘The next decade’s going to be better,’ Bob said. ‘Attitudes are going to change.’

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Vic the NHS veteran

It was in all the papers. And everyone felt they knew old Vic because he was always in town with his little dog and his collecting cup. He liked a chat with anyone who was passing and you could often see him walking unsteadily from pitch to pitch.  People sometimes bought him a Starbucks coffee or a Greggs sausage roll rather than put money in his pot (there was a bit of a moral dilemma around giving money in case it got spent on booze, drugs or fags. My view has long been that if drugs booze or fags are just what you need, then so be it ).

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My Old Man Vamoosed

Alright I’ll tell you the score. My old man said I was a mistake, said marrying my mam was a mistake, said his whole bloody life since he first met her was a goddam major mistake.

My mam, knocked up at nineteen, possessed a good catholic heart and insisted on keeping the baby (moi) whilst her old man metaphorically whipped out his shotgun, demanding that my dad do the right thing.

Despite his pleas for adoption (if abortion was out of the question) dad decided to stick it out. At least until I was six years old, before saying: “Fuck this” and vamoosed. Yeah, picture me still with my baby teeth, being told that dad isn’t coming back. He’s not dead or sick, he just isn’t around anymore.

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Hangman

‘C?’ he says.

            C is for Claire. That’s her name. The other woman.

‘Nope.’ The gallows and most of the stick man are already finished. I draw a wiggly line for his mouth to indicate fear and trepidation. ‘One more mistake and you’re dead.’

I try to deliver the line pointedly, with ominous eye-contact, but Steve’s attention is drawn to the other side of the waiting room, where the only other person, ‘Tim Barrett,’ is being called in to see the dentist. Tim Barrett puts down the out-of-date issue of Marie Claire magazine that he has been pretending to read – precisely the reason we have resorted to pen-and-paper games – and follows the assistant into one of the clinics. A muffled greeting and a waft of disinfectant mixed with dust escape the room before the door clicks shut. There are only two dentists in this surgery, so this means Steve is next. He thinks I can’t tell, but I know his hands are sweating because he’s wiping them on his jeans.

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One Name Between Us


Photo by Michelle Gregor on Unsplash

They grew us a new body. It was ready the morning we married. It wasn’t hers, and it wasn’t mine. This was the fairest way, they said, so no one would be favoured. Our old bodies went to the furnace by evening. I signed the merge as the last act of a solitary person and woke with hands and a heart belonging to both of us.

For nine days, I was happy.

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September Prompt: Mistakes

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 03.09.26.

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

Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 3rd September 2026. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 06.09.26, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.

Use the contact page to find out where to send your stories.

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