Video reading of Waterley Cross

A short story written this month.

Short story: Collection Day

Jetlag kicked in with sheets of exhaustion sapping his energy. The plane still thrummed in his ears. From the long coach ride to Bristol he first impressions of England were miniature green fields, like a printed circuit board.

He was so glad to arrive though the coach station was unremarkable. He expected red buses and black cabs. Despite his tiredness he preferred to walk, rather than catch a cab. He followed the signs to the university, glad to soak up the atmosphere of the stone buildings rimmed with a dirty bloom.

His lodgings must be around here somewhere - the buildings were ancient with old windows and shrubby gardens and crumbling stonework.  The knocker was a curved hand which pounded on the door. There was no answer even though the sound echoed deep within the house. He peered through the letterbox - a small landscape of cold hallway greeted him, lit by a soft light. A row of shoes. Goddamn it, he'd have to find somewhere else.  They knew he was coming didn't they? He made himself calm down. Tomorrow he's meet Prof Nick and the  other PhD researchers, and explore this place properly.

He found a motel but the charges were hellish steep, so he wandered on, then spotted something. Well, why not? He liked camping, and after all he was broke. He lifted the large lid of the industrial sized bin, delighted to see it contained paper and cardboard. Sleep and dreams of flying claimed him quickly.

The bin men's early breath and exhaust fumes hang heavy in the air. Piper was having a good morning - he worked fast, efficiently, and today the smell of the restaurant bins was subdued with the frost. He had a good system - you had to pull the bins out and position them behind the yellow jaws of the refuse lorry to be picked up, then run ahead to fetch the next bins. That way they lorry could move quickly along the road with minimum disruption to the traffic.   When the round was finished Piper and the gang headed off to the Avonmouth Depot where the lorry disgorged it's compacted load. 

Guest blogpost: David Peak, novelist

I met Dave Peak over twenty years ago, when I attended his evening classes in creative writing. He was always hugely encouraging to fledging writers including me. Graduates of his classes have set up writing groups and gone on to work in magazines such as The Spark.

Dave encouraged me to celebrate my 'unique voice'. As he put it recently if there's 100 people in a room 50% will like you and 50% won't, but there will be no-one else who can write in your voice, in your style. He also encouraged me to believe in my writing, something I'm still struggling with, but which makes an enormous difference to my ability to be creative, and get to the nub of things.

I left his class when I had my first child and lost touch with him until recently when he read at a spoken word event - Word of Mouth, at the Thunderbolt in Bristol, last month.

Dave has had three novels published: No 4 Pickle St, The Cotoneaster Factor and Go Gentle.

This is an extract from his unpublished novel, Miss Woo Country.

Once the storm passed a hypnotic wind came through the french windows carrying with it the smell of the hedgerow. I doubt Colquahoon noticed. He's more a numbers man. Most times he crosses the dayroom
without sound like a butterfly on a summer day. Is it summer? Or summer's? Jugg used to explain that sort of thing and then he'd make transgressors - of which I was one - write it out oh a hundred times.
I shall not in italics do whatever it is again. Such severity had its good points. For example I've never since spelt different wrongly. I used to miss out the first e. Jugg wore linen jackets whose pockets
were dappled with chalk dust. I don't think he ever married though he did have a number of whitened cats. They were in the paper when he died. Homes Wanted. Ten to one they drifted back. Cats don't settle
easily elsewhere. The word's territorial. Like me. I was never one for roaming or for following in the footsteps of whoever. I was afraid something might happen while I was out of range of home. A certain oh
no leapt to mind if ever anyone suggested a night away.

If only I could make it out to the patio under my own steam. It's an ache. Not an unpleasant one necessarily. I'm perturbed by Colquahoon's fixation on his Times when he can - in fact - get up and go out there
if he wishes. Perhaps he'll occasionally cross his slippers or clear his throat. Any number of things. I heard Harry invite him earlier - Harry's good like that though not with me evidently - for what he
called a turn round the grounds. Old Colquahoon dug his heels in. I'm fine where I am, he said gruffly. I enjoy the occasional adverb even though Jugg said too many are a sign of laziness. I'm not even sure it
was gruffly. I used it because it made the sentence scan in my head.


Dave - thanks so much for sharing your latest work - Grace.