I’ve been writing a few short stories this month as part of a writing course (I try and do as many courses as I can). Here's an exclusive extract to one of them.
If you want to know what happens next, vote below, and I’ll post the rest of the short story in June.
Short Story Extract
Brandon shuffled along the quiet pavement in the centre of the village. It was early morning before the school run, and the air was still fresh as dozens of cars hadn’t passed by, pumping out fumes.
It was late Spring, and the sun was climbing into the sky, half-awake. Birds huddled on branches now littered with lush green leaves and sang their morning songs.
Far away in the fields beyond the village, baby lambs would be frolicking in the fields, flitting between daffodils and fresh-water becks. When the wind blew in his direction, Brandon could almost hear their playful bleats.
But he wasn’t in the mood for newborn idyllic Spring mornings. He had to get off the street before anyone — too late.
He saw a Royal Mail car parked up next to a red pillar box several yards down the road. The pillar box still had the ER insignia on it, and he asked himself when they’d get around to changing them.
He was in the middle of the street in front of the sandwich shop window that he often visited for lunch. He looked at its large laminated menu in the window and dreaded to think what Mrs Watkins would say if she saw him right then.
Luckily, he was known as a good-looking chap. He had the chiselled jawline and vibrant green eyes that could give him a career in modelling if he wanted it. Desperate talent scouts had asked him several times to try out as one, but he’d always declined. He was blissfully unaware of his good looks and thought there was more to life than standing around looking pretty.
Then again, he had to wonder if only someone who was good-looking would think that.
His skin tone was slightly darker than the average for the region, thanks to his Italian heritage. And he kept in shape, running, going to the gym, and swimming, so he cut a lithe figure and had good muscle definition. He was comfortable in his skin, that was for sure, and didn’t understand people who weren’t.
Again, he had to ask himself if others who weren’t as blessed as he would think the same.
But if anyone saw him right now, they’d get a good look of his honed physique and olive-coloured skin. They’d see more of him now than if he’d spent his whole thirty-two years on the runway. Unless in some of those years he’d done a few porn shoots.
The gentle breeze tickled the hair on his bare buttocks, and he shifted the cushion he was holding back there to scratch it.
He held another cushion over his crotch, coving the money shot. Apart from these two furnishing accessories he’d snatched from the green leather chair in Mrs White’s bedroom, he’d be completely naked.
Which he knew very was a criminal offence. Being a solicitor, he was up to date on such things.
His jeans and designer shirt, along with his underpants and socks, were on the floor next to Mrs White’s bed. Her husband, who worked on the oil rigs in the North Sea, called around 5 a.m. to explain he’d be back in half-an-hour.
Mrs White had freaked out. She didn’t want a big divorce and was comfortable living in that four-bedroomed detached house while playing around on the side. She shoved Brandon out of bed and screamed at him to go.
Brandon wondered why he hadn’t thought to take his clothes, but Mrs White’s screeches were so deafening, he thought people might think he was doing something bad to her. Plus, he was still half-unconscious, having been violently kicked out of his post-coital slumber.
Something sharp dug into the sole of his left foot and he wished it wasn’t broken glass. He lifted it up and saw a particularly sharp bit of gravel.
A car door closed, and the post-man got out his van. Thankfully, he was staring at his phone and hadn’t seemed to notice Brandon standing in front of the sandwich shop window with everything on display.
To Be Continued...
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