Crediton Short Story Competition 2. It’s remarkably easy to live without people: I don’t need them and they ignore me. My cottage is in an isolated spot, I have no neighbours, so I seldom talk to anyone in the village. Download The New Super Dark Times (2017) Movie. It’s only on Mondays that I feel the need for company. I put on my best clothes, adopt the character of a jovial, care- free pensioner and take the bus into Exeter. Breaking my self- imposed silence is a welcome release, but I always make sure that conversations are brief and confined to pleasantries. When in the city, I usually visit The Arabica Bean Coffee Shop.

It is often quite empty and the window seat furnishes and excellent view of eager shoppers, passing on their way to John Lewis or Matalan. My favourite waiter, Ray, is standing behind the counter, ready to dispense the dark brown elixir that soothes away all lethargy and leaves the recipient somewhere between Nirvana and a coronary.“Good morning, Ray, and how are you this dull and murky Devon morning? Are the management still stealing your tips and failing to pay you the minimum wage?”“Mustn’t grumble, Mr Poltimore, in fact, I’m rather excited.

Thing is, I’ve been promised a new black t- shirt with the word “Barista” emblazoned on the breast.”“How splendid! It must feel good to be appreciated by the powers that be.”“It does indeed, sir. My employers are the most considerate and generous in the entire Universe.” Surreptitiously, he gives me a wink and mouths the word “bastards”. I will not dwell upon the meaning of the gesture he makes with this right hand.“Now, what can I get you, sir?”“The usual please, Ray.”“Will that be one shot or two?”“Make it three, the old heart rate, I fear, has succumbed to sloth and is in need of a little boost.”“Three it is, sir, nothing worse than a sluggish ticker. And may I be so bold as to compliment you on your attire this morning?”The years Ray spent in drama school have not been wasted. Every time I see him he is rehearsing a different role – today he’s practising his Slightly Supercilious English Butler.“You are too kind, Jeeves, but thank you nonetheless.”“My pleasure, sir, all part of the service; but sir, and I hope you’ll not take this amiss, are we not a little funereal this morning? Have we, perhaps, strayed a little too far into the realm of noir?”“Not at all, Jeeves, the darkness is completely intentional – I was aiming for a look somewhere between that of the undertaker and the corpse.”In town I always dress in black; from my wide- brimmed fedora to the toes of my highly polished brogues.

Ray knows this perfectly well and yet he always comments on my appearance.“Ah, yes, of course,” he says, “there’s always room for a soupcon of the netherworld, sir – jollity is much over- rated in my opinion. I leaf my way through the free newspaper so thoughtfully provided by the management. I give it my rapt attention for almost thirty seconds before I toss it aside with a sigh. Partly shielded by the giant coffee beans etched on the glass, I cast my gaze upon the river of humanity passing by the window.

1. Directed by Alex Ranarivelo. With Jane Seymour, Annabelle Stephenson, Nicholas Gonzalez, James Morrison. A journalist returns to the California farming community.
2. Prince, Soundtrack: Batman. Prince Rogers Nelson was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, to Mattie Shaw, a jazz singer and social worker, and John L. Nelson, a lyricist.

The FEED by Catholic Online. Daily Readings for Tuesday, September 05, 2017; From evil to good, an abortion clinic is converted to care for the. Daily Reading for.

The third Crediton Short Story Competition is on the theme of. ECHOES Winners will be announced by 24 June 2017. Keep in touch for updates.

I am a man well used to solitude. This morning I feel as though I am floating in the saltiest of salt lakes, the most lifeless of Dead Seas. The water has the consistency of Golden Syrup and I can neither swim nor drown. It’s as though I’m on life support; my brain, morphine calm and dreamy, my consciousness at a level between deepest sleep and coma. Machines take care of my bodily functions and monitor my progress to a destination unknown. There is no light here, only sounds; it’s as though I am operating a kind of sonar system – sending out signals and hearing echoes in reply.

Strangely, some of the sounds are fragments of lyrics from the songbook of Elvis Presley.“Here’s your coffee, Mr Poltimore. Is there anything else I can get you?”“Err? A glass of water?”“I think I might try a small brandy, just for the circulation, you understand; it’s rather early in the morning after all.”“Brandy, it is, sir. Coming right up. And by the way, sir, can I ask you a small favour? I’m still wearing my black overcoat even though it’s warm in the coffee shop. I keep my hat pulled down so the brim covers much of my face. I don’t want to attract attention or frighten people; still less to provoke horror- struck stares or callous derision.

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My face is not hideously deformed, merely ugly. I don’t think that any one of my features is repulsive in itself, but they seem to be arranged in the most unattractive pattern possible. A bell tinkles, the coffee shop door opens. It is a woman: she wears a light- coloured trench coat and a red beret. What is she – a private investigator or a member of the French Resistance? She walks up to the bar and stands there looking puzzled.

As I’m the only customer, she turns to me and says,“Is there anyone serving here?”“Yes, yes. Would you like me to call him?”“He won’t be long will he?”“I shouldn’t think so.”“Then I’ll wait. I’m in no hurry, I’m not sure I want a coffee just yet.”She smiles at me, gently drums her fingers on the bar, smiles again, and says,“I wonder. It’s so very kind of you to let me sit here.

You know, I love this place it’s so different and so. I’ve often noticed that. In truth, she’s giving me far too much credit; I’ve really no idea how to flatter a woman.

She says, “Some people just don’t want to be the first, it frightens them somehow.”“It doesn’t bother you though – the place being empty, I mean?”“No, not at all; obviously, you don’t mind either.”For a moment I say nothing; I want to talk, but I’m wary of entering into a conversation with this woman – with this very attractive woman. She’s not young, probably in her fifties; although she could be ten or twenty years older, or even ten or twenty years younger. I’ve no idea; I have very little experience of women. If I talk to her, I might say too much, open up and embarrass us both. Keep it neutral.“Shall I go and get Ray? He said to call him if.

She has large brown eyes and lots of laughter lines. I feel very comfortable with her, for the first time in long time, I want to go beyond mere pleasantries and really talk to someone.“I can wait a little longer.”She smiles again and says, “I have a question for you – do you mind?”“Of course not, I’ll answer it if I can.”“It’s a question I’ve asked lots of people and nearly all of them found it easy to answer.”“Go ahead then, I’ll do my very best.”“O. K., where were you when Elvis died?”I want to ask her why she wants to know. Perhaps everyone remembers what they were doing when they heard about Presley’s death; just as those of us who are old enough, can remember exactly where we were when Kennedy was killed.“When was it?

I suppose it must be that long – doesn’t seem like it. In 1. 97. 7, I had a bedsit in Acton– horrible place – an attic right under the roof – hot as hell in Summer, cold as death in Winter. It must have been Summer when he died; I remember the heat in my room was almost unbearable.”“1. August, 1. 97. 7”“Really.

I don’t remember the date. Wasn’t he found on his toilet or something?”“Yes – a horrible death. Poor man – let’s not go into all the gruesome details.

I’m just curious; can you remember anything at all about that day?”“Oddly enough, I do have a few memories. Usually, I worked nights, but it was my day off. I think I heard the news in the morning – or was it the evening? And all those films he made – such awful drivel!

It was better when he started singing live again – but why choose Vegas?! That was so uncool! I was more a Beatles’ and Stones’ man – that was my kind of music – but on the night he died, I searched my record collection and found about ten of his singles. I played those songs over and over again as a kind of tribute.

I’d forgotten just how good he was. I’m not sure I want to continue: not that I did anything to be ashamed of that night, it’s just that I feel an all too familiar reticence swelling up inside me and a voice screaming – be on your guard, keep yourself to yourself, don’t give anything away! I hesitate, she waits.