Looking for Elsie - A short story

This was a submission for a Writing Fiction course that I studied with the Open University; the task was to write an original short story in under 800 words... quite a challenge!

Arthur Dennis Tate was content with life at his ripe age of eighty-seven; he sat back in his rocking chair overlooking the bay and thought back over his time. Having left an unsettled childhood to become a fisherman’s apprentice at fifteen years old, Arthur had spent his best years at sea. He became at ease with its rhythm and constant changes; ‘Respect the sea and stay alive’ flashed into his sharp old mind, the words his skipper had told him on his first day at work and he had done just that.

 Despite never marrying or having a family to call his own, Arthur had no regrets and since moving to a small B&B in the coastal town of Saltburn-by-the-sea he had settled into a comfortable routine.

One evening as he took his usual stroll on the beach, Arthur noticed that something wasn’t right; Elsie was missing. He had taken his usual route along the soft sand, walking slowly as his creaking knees struggled to hold him up, his eyes scanning the horizon for her deckchair. It was nowhere to be seen. Although they had never spoken, Arthur would consider Elsie to be his only friend. Every day he walked the same route by the lapping waters of the North Sea and every day Elsie would be sat in her deckchair. She would be scribbling away in her sketchbook and pause only to give Arthur a smile as he tipped his hat to greet her. Arthur pointed his worn-out brown loafer at the dent in the sand where her chair should have been, gazing out to the sea with a silent panic in his shivering bones.

The red fabric of the deckchair is what caught his eye first, flapping in the November breeze as the foam of the tide shunted it on to the sand. Arthur took a quick gulp for breath and hobbled over to save it; he pulled it easily from the clutches of the water and laid it flat for further inspection, rubbing his hands dry on his navy blue anorak. The chair was a wreck, but it was what lay beneath the ruined fabric that grabbed Arthur’s attention. With a careful manoeuvre, he used his stick to drag out the grey satchel that was hiding under the wreckage; it had also been claimed by the icy waters yet as he squinted down at it through the thick lenses of his glasses, Arthur noticed that it was still fastened tightly. He bent slowly down and unfastened the buckle and zip to inspect its contents, maybe it would give him some hope for Elsie’s safety. Water splashed out of the satchel as it opened and revealed Elsie’s belongings: an Ordnance Survey map of Saltburn, a packet of mints, a small umbrella, some pencils and her treasured sketchbook. Arthur took a moment to compose himself and pulled the sketchbook out on to the wet sand. A tear ran down his cheek as he realised that he was unlikely to ever see Elsie again; a life claimed by the sea. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes then clutched the soggy sketchbook to his chest and turned back towards the B&B. 

Mr Murray was surprised to see the old man back so soon and looking so lost, Arthur was a man of routine and he was not expected to be home for another half an hour yet.

‘Is everything okay Mr Tate?’ 

Arthur didn’t reply, he left his wet shoes by the front door and headed up to his room. Once inside he turned his halogen heater up and started to dry out the pages of Elsie’s book. Arthur thought that after many years on this Earth there would be nothing left to surprise him but as he turned the pages of the sketchbook, Arthur was utterly taken aback. Every page held a drawing, lovingly pencilled and rough around the edges; each page that he turned was alike the last, with every drawing of the same subject.

 Arthur closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair with the sketches floating around in his mind, the drawings were so clear, he couldn’t quite believe what he had seen. Every page had held a familiar face; his own face. Arthur felt his aging body swell with an unfamiliar feeling. He finally knew what it was like to be loved.

Arthur Dennis Tate passed away peacefully in his sleep that cold November night, the sketchbook tight against his chest, a content smile on his face. Another life claimed by the sea.

A watercolour painting (completed Aug 15)

Me, My Shelves and I.

My next creative writing task is here... a little later than intended.

'Write about what is on your mantel (or shelves) and why…'

Every room in my house has shelves in it; partly my obsession with books, but mainly because I enjoy giving each unit its own identity with the trinkets that I have added over time. 

Let’s start with the lounge, certainly not an unusual place to find shelving! These shelves, of course, contain books but only the best ones make it to this central location; I’m talking the Barnes and Noble leather-bound editions of the classics and a selection of favourites from the Everyman Millennium Library with their uniform spines and charming presence. These are the books that I imagine would accompany a bottle of Merlot and perhaps some gentle notes of Beethoven drifting in the background; in reality, I’m saddened to admit, these are the books that barely get the attention that they deserve and fade into insignificance alongside the clock and a few inherited sculptures of horses. In contrast to the traditional items that enjoy these shelves, there is a framed image that simply states: ‘All I need is coffee and free Wi-Fi’. Irony ensues, as it sits next to so many little-used items as I sip my Americano and surf the web.

The dining room in my house is the place to be if shelves are ‘your thing’. The first thing to catch your eyes upon entering the room is the collection of drinks and (conveniently) glasses, perhaps, not an unusual addition to a dining room. Accompanying the beverages are a number of novelty and commemorative tins that I can’t bring myself to throw out and a quirky teapot with a set of china cups and saucers; for the rare occasion that I find myself the hostess of a tea party (or bric-a-brac sale). I’d love to tell a fascinating tale surrounding the ornamental pieces that inhabit these shelves but in reality, they are items that I saw and decided were ‘cute’ – they include a ceramic squirrel and glass birds. 

The dining room also hosts another large unit of shelving containing the most popular books in my household and plenty of unusual trinkets. Here you will find copies of Jurassic Park, comics and books about history, politics and grammar. Books aside, there are items on these shelves that serve little to no purpose at all; I am referring to a small collection of plastic dinosaurs, a wooden train whistle and the dancing blob from the E.on adverts. Mostly small objects picked up on my travels or evidence of my partner’s love for the prehistoric world. 

There are shelves that do not need a thorough mention, if indeed any do! The kitchen shelves are a place for cookbooks, the bathroom shelves for candles and the overflow shelves of the spare bedroom are where random items retire once their lack of purpose has been acknowledged.

Finally then, my favourite shelves in the house, my bedroom shelves. I have an old-fashioned, high-backed reading chair nearby and these shelves are brimming with my favourite books and light-hearted literature. From the entire Roald Dahl collection to chick-lit and ‘Ready, set… Novel!’ these are the books that are the used the most as I sit in my chair reminiscent of someone three times my age, sipping tea and snuggled under a blanket with the dog curled at my feet. These shelves are also home to part of my rubber duck collection and random stationery items that I bought on impulse.

If you have made it this far without falling into a shelving-induced sleep then I offer my congratulations; in the mind of a book-lover and librarian shelving is almost an art form and can therefore justify filling most of the front page of my blog! 

Summer Writing Challenge

Wow, it has been a while since my last post!

I have decided to set myself a writing challenge to keep me entertained through my - much needed - summer break; I will aim to complete regular writing tasks in a range of different styles to inform and entertain and to build my writing portfolio up.

So here it goes... my first task:

Please be aware that the following is completely fictitious based on the task set and is in no way related to personal experiences!

Write about how shallow people try to create an aura of authenticity by consuming books, films and food, and befriending other, actually authentic people.

Of all the types of people in the world, perhaps the most tragic personalities are those with very little, or no, personality at all. They may appear in any town, city or country around the world and may, upon the surface, appear to be alluring; they may be beautiful, they may be grotesque, but the sad truth for these individuals is that there is nothing more to them than meets the eye.

Imagine a deep ocean, a mysterious place with a broad spectrum of colours and interesting life-forms that may not have even been discovered yet… there are people of this ilk, they are the ones who have unusual hobbies, perhaps enjoy creative past-times, a conversation with them is to explore a new way of thinking, to set out on an adventure into the great unknown – all this before you even finished the first round of drinks. But the real focus here is not on those who are vast, mesmerising seas; we are thinking more of those souls who may be likened to a puddle. Not even, to a puddle of a murky nature, nor one with hidden depths, these people bare more semblance to a mere slim covering of water on a single-tone tarmacked slab, without so much as a bug floating on the surface. Of course, when it all boils down to it, these dull, non-entities are more commonly referred to by their ‘street name’ - shallow people.

Shallow people – regardless of appearance, location or a number of other demographics – are often acutely aware of their lack of depth and rather than accepting that their personality is, in fact, akin to a lampshade, they spend their lives striving to convince others of their authenticity. It may be noted, that this has a success rate of nil.

Upon acknowledging that they are indeed boring, a shallow individual may begin collecting interesting articles or stories with which to surround themselves – they may feel the necessity of dropping these adopted interests into conversations. As you peruse the olive selection at your Great Aunt’s funeral buffet, they may be hit by a bolt of utter devotion to discussing the works of Shakespeare, aviary birds or model railways. Be not fooled by this sudden mention of such fascinating topics – this is merely a Wikipedia-research exercise into ‘being interesting’ and should perhaps come with a warning label for those who end up drawn, unwillingly, into asking questions such as, ‘how often should one feed a lesser-spotted-blue-with-pink-polka-dots canary?’ and ‘how do you feel about the indirect way that the emotions of the main characters were portrayed in line 382 of that particular sonnet?’

Alas, one should also be aware of the more complex – yet shockingly ineffective – method that shallow people may adopt in their mission to appear authentic; once in a while an individual who has recognised as possessing a personality that is somewhat lacking, will come across someone who they deem to be wonderful, the very essence of excitement that one may get from a conversation with such a deep person is enough to send those of a shallow disposition into a cold sweat. Once this sense of awe has struck this cardboard-persona, they begin to realise that, although their conversations would be dull enough to send a pigeon into a coma, they could use the worldly knowledge and magnetising attitude of Mr or Mrs Deep-Thinker to allow themselves to appear authentic. One can recognise this disingenuous technique by being alert to a simple social cue; look out for the person who stands in a group collective agreeing to whatever is being said: ‘And so I told the Tsar that the peppermint green tea was in fact majorly superior to the rooibos and eventually he agreed!’ ‘Yes, me too. Oh yes, why of course, peppermint green tea is the bomb!’ – Whilst self-congratulating themselves on thinking ‘what a pretentious way to pronounce ‘red’ and ‘bush’.

And so, if you have sat reading this, making occasional murmurs of ‘hmm’, ‘golly, yes that’s most accurate’ and ‘yes, that sounds just like <insert name here> – for we all know that a shallow person would not be reading this in the first place, of course, why would they when you could be reading this on their behalf? Perhaps it would be most kind to pass on some valuable advice to your unfortunate acquaintance, pass on some words of wisdom to the candle that never met the flame, the picnic that forgot the sandwiches and the pen with no ink. Encourage the simple soul to take on a genuine new hobby to improve their self-worth – perhaps Tiddlywinks or watching GIFs online – and send them on their journey into authenticity.