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Father was taught to fence by the same fellow who taught the royal family. Fellow called Zaroff, a Russian.

He taught my Father to Olympic standard, with the idea of my Father taking part. But, Life is Life and, my lil Mother had become his wife. Then they got me. I had had spent many a sunny afternoon fencing during my early teens, in the back garden with my Dad, who taught me to fight rather well, midst the apple trees and, I can can still hear his voice as he had coached me, 'parry, parry, thrust...'

I had fought well, enjoying his lessons and picturing myself as Errol Flynn, using the apple trees as my avenue to avoid his strikes.

And, years passed, as they do and I'd found myself at college, studying catering. Then, stangely enough, life had taken a turn as it does and, it had transpired that the person in charge of the fencing class I went to was the head of my catering department.

I'd been driven in class, having almost given up smoking, to get as good as I could be. And, one evening, we had had fought, 'parry, parry, thrust' as the class had watched on; and, the red bobble at the end of the sword had come off, on impact with the head with his chest.

Everyone had been shocked and, I'd been surprised myself, at what had happened and stood back, mouth agape.

Months passed and, the head of the catering department had called me into his office, saying, “I know you can do more than you're doing.”

And, a private board of assessors had been called in.

The session had taken hours and been quite exhausting.

Awhile later I'd been called into his office and, after several minutes of chat, he'd been called out. And, there on his desk had been the report about me. Now, I can read quite well upside down, so I'd done so, being shocked at what I had read.

Supposedly, the report said that my potential iq was several marks higher than Einstein. That had done my head in, goodstyle.

He'd returned to the office and, I'd lisstened to his words, as if they were distant.

Back then, I had not been able to find validation in my own existence. I had always seemed to want to want something, 'extra'. And finally,everything had come together in my mind, as I thought on what I knew.

Shortly after, I'd found myself in a cubicle toilet, where I'd sat. Bending down, I'd opened my folder of knives.

Then I'd drawn the French knife across my right wrist.

The blood had flowed, as expected.

Yet, I had fainted at the sight of my blood.
When I had woken, I'd struggled to find the cubicle door, but had found it, with unsteady hands.

It had been my second breakdown, the first being on my eleven-plus.

Then, I'd walked toward the bus-stop and, my journey home, my wrist still sore from its wound.

The results of all I had learned had swirled in my head, as I had waited for the bus home.

'Potential?' the word had swirled in his head as he returned home.

Just, what did word potential mean?



I

Balcony Thoughts

One evening, I stood on the balcony, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. The view was breathtaking, the kind my parents had always cherished. And, for the first time in a long while I felt at peace.

As I watched the fading light, I knew my journey was not over, yet.

I recall I hadn't slept well that night. Yet, she has risen with her alarm and, given me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, before leaving the apartment.

Having spent much of the afternoon at the cafe across the road from where we lived, drinking coffee and trawling through youtube I had finally stood and, walked home, my heart already feeling heavy.

I hadn't wanted to go back, albeit I had known that I needed to. So it was, I'd turned my key in the lock, hesitantly.

I'd entered and walked into the kitchen, seeking my caffeine fix and a few moments peace, before she arrived home and, the expected confrontation. Albeit I had planned well, I wary about her reaction to what I had planned, for her return.

Finished my coffee, I had walked to the deck for a smoke, looking to my watch. It would not be long, I had assured myself.

Finally, I'd heard her fumbling with her keys as ever, before finding the right one for the door and entering.

“Been a long day?” I'd called out.

“You wouldn't believe it,” she had exclaimed, removed one high heel, then the other, “first of all the Jameson account was held up by...” and so, she had droned on, as she had removed her work clothes and entered the lounge, sans make-up and wearing a white-fluffy-robe.

My adoring partner had slumped into the fine leather couch, found the remote, turned on the tv and sought out her mobile phone, within seconds of sitting down.

“What'd for dinner?” She'd called over her shoulder, scrolling through her phone, as she had channel-surfed.

I had leaned against the door-frame, arms crossed, quite furious, knowing full well what I held in my hand.

Moments had passed, as I considered what to do next, aware that I had to make a move.

The moment stretched and, finally she had looked up from her phone and snapped, “Are you ignoring me? I asked what's for dinner?”

That'd been it, all the incentive I'd needed, to move onto my next move.

Uncrossing my arms, I'd extended my hand, my own smartphone already open, as I'd scrolled through the picture.

“What are these?” I asked her, an edge to my voice, showing her the images I had on my camera...







[This is an AI inspired short-story, utilising a few lines, from AI orientated stories. It was written to illustrate that although AI can write, it needs man, or woman, to add emotion, to the piece/story.]

Christies Curiosity Shop


'They' say, 'The dead cannot tell tales.'

But this is the age of the video-cassette.

And, one dark and rainy night found a sweating Billy Lamont running down narrow cobbled-streets.

He was wearing his biker leather, white tee, bluejeans and heavy boots, that splashed hard in large puddles, as he ran from the two blue-bottles following him, one blowing his stainless-steel whistle.

Billy panicked even more and, the knuckles of his right hand holding the flick-knife turned white.

'How was I supposed to know there two coppers standing nearby?' He considered harshly, recalling cutting the handbags straps, then a voice behind him bellowed, “Oi you?”

Billy had dropped the bag then fled, just as it had begun to rain.

He had run away from the city centre streets and away from the crowds trying to avoid the rain. He headed for the older part of town, where the streets were cobbled and narrow. Although it was early in the evening; there were no shops lit, bar one. That is where Billy headed.

Frenzied, Billy jerked the door open and looked around himself.
He had just come out of juvie and was eighteen now. If he was caught it meant real jaitime.

He looked around the room, filled by a myriad of allsorts; stuffed animals, redundant wheel-to-wheel machines, a plethora of old brass instruments, which caught light from the single bulb that dangled from the ceiling high above.

Billy crouched low, so as to keep away from view of the front window, as he moved deeper into the gloom of the store.

He approached the counter that seemed to have a large black bear standing tall over the till, with the corridor to the back; just to the left of the bear.

Standing he called out, “Anyone here?”

A door opened and closed and a stooped old man in a smart grey suit walked toward Billy.

This was Old Man Christie, the stores owner.

“You're not supposed to be back here young man,” he croaked, as Billy flicked the knife open.

“I want the money old man!” He snapped.

Christie looked to the blade then said, “I'll open the till for you.”

“Sensible move old man,” Billy snarled, looking around himself wildly.

There was something wrong, he felt it.

Then from outside he heard that damn whistle again.
He swirled round and as he did so the blade sank into Old Man Christie, who fell to the floor, blood quickly pooling around him.

Billy paled as he looked down, trying to understand what had happened.

That is when the monitor's in Christies office recorded to tape, a swipe from the black bear to Billy's face that killed him immediately.

Then the light that had glowed in the bears eyes died out and, it stood once more in it guard of the till, as Old Man Christie still sought breathe.

Abruptly, the bell for the door opened and the boys in blue entered his shop, with one calling out, “Anyone here?”

As he died, the old man grinned: it was all on tape.

'Dead man can tell tales.'

When I was five, or so… I had a full-size Dalek of my own; built by my Dad, a master carpenter, joiner and model-maker.

He had used plans he either drew up, or acquired, perhaps from the Radio Times. Either way, it looked like a proper early BBC Dalek.

For years, we still had 8mm film of my cousin going up and down the sidewalk in it, in the rain. She was out there for hours, I'd been told.

Years later, unfortunately, the Dalek had become literal firewood, as my Father explained his rationale that cold winter; “Well,” he'd explained, as the fire produced warmth for the living-room, “you haven't played with it for years, have you?”

I recall being upset, for awhile, but had been easily distracted by a plateful of toasted cheese, a stick of celery and, an episode of 'Lost In Space.'

The Sandy Explorer


I cannot remember whether it had been '66 or '67, but I do recall the golden sand of the Warren Beach, Abersoch.

I recall the pathway from the caravan site, leading to it, with tall grasses either side.

It'd always been a bluesky day, always – except when it wasn't.

I'd been six, or seven, I think, wearing just my trunks, on my somewhat skinny body; as I'd followed my parents to the beach, where my Mother had lain down the towels and Father had set up the windbreaker, to prevent sand getting into the picnic – though, it always did; after all, you're on a beach.

Anyway, as my parents had set up the picnic, I'd gone exploring.

I'd walked back over to the pathway again, then walked to the right and begun to dig into the sandbank. I can't recall where I'd been tunnelling to, whether it was New Zealand, or Australia.

But, I'd been intent on my mission, to dig to the other side of the world.

Well, that'd been the idea.

About then, my Mother had asked where I was, so my Father had gone looking for me.

As he searched for me, I'd continued to dig...

And then, there'd been the fall-in, when seemingly a ton of sand, fell on me.

Frightened beyond belief and thinking I'd die, I'd screamed for help and, got a mouthful of sand, for my troubles...

Thankfully, at that point, my Father had seen my legs sticking out from the sandbank, from my shins onward.

He'd grasped my ankles and, pulled hard.

Falling back onto his bottom, he'd drawn me out of my possible tomb, like a cork from a bottle.

I had not cried, as he cuddled me and, led me back to my Little Mother, with sand in my hair and inside my trunks, finding places, where sand should never be.

A towel and discretion allowed her to clean me off, before replacing my trunks.

“Go wash off in the sea,” she had told me, “before we eat.”

Just being with my folks and wrapped in a towel and my Mothers arms, I'd felt safe again.