Marbella Writers is a group open to everybody in the area of Marbella Spain who is interested in writing.
My name is Tony Merrington and I've been a member of the Marbella Writer's Workshop since 2002. The Marbella Writers Group are a disparate bunch of individuals united by the desire to have fun writing. Whether its autobiographical or purely creative, we share the same aims. The benefits of the group are manifold, but I love the opportunity of getting a candid reaction to my work from a friendly bunch of guys with sympathetic ideals.
We are constructed from all levels of experience, from complete novices to embittered old pro's (Ooops! Sorry, I made that up!...must be the creative writer in me.). The structure of the group is informal, but with just the right amount of discipline to make it worthwhile.
I will be loading some of my short stories hereafter. I welcome any constructive observations.
We are constructed from all levels of experience, from complete novices to embittered old pro's (Ooops! Sorry, I made that up!...must be the creative writer in me.). The structure of the group is informal, but with just the right amount of discipline to make it worthwhile.
I will be loading some of my short stories hereafter. I welcome any constructive observations.
but_i_know_what_i_like.pdf | |
File Size: | 39 kb |
File Type: |
All’s Fair in the Village. ©T-Max Merrington 11/05/10.
The cricket green of Snorby-at-Wisdom buzzed with the sounds of activity. Marquees and side-tents each competed for the visitor’s patronage. The tables supporting the entries in Mrs Wellbodie’s “Fruitcake-Challenge”, were bowing under the weight of the confection.
Reverend Trickle’s wife, Elsie Trickle, was valiantly screaming her marketing cry. “Get your hand crocheted New Testament place markers here!” Much to Elsie’s irritation, there was an impressive queue at the next table where Zara Gushing, Snorby’s celebrity soap star, was dispensing kisses for one pound. All proceeds to go to Reverend Trickle’s church steeple restoration fund.
There was much jocular banter at the tent occupied by corpulent farmer Ted de Juniper, who was inviting guesses as to how much he tipped the scales at. At fifty pence a ticket, the prize of a year’s supply of Ted’s grade ‘A’ eggs was less a draw than the opportunity of insulting the good humoured man-mountain, with wildly exaggerated guesses.
Perhaps predictably, the busiest tent was the beer marquee. This concession was run by Vernon Sneidbury, landlord of local hostelry, the Stoat and Goitre. While the buxom duo of bar maids Tracy and Chardonnay, dispensed foaming pints of best bitter, animated conversations reached ever increasing heights.
Holding court at the end of the bar was Major Buffington-Gore (retired). Trading a pint of beer with a snifter of brandy, the old soldier began to wrestle with a Cuban cigar and a lighter, whilst extolling the evils of the local Labour party councillors. “Damn communists! Ought to be shot!” The Major’s attendant sycophants nodded sagely. Checking his gold hunter, the Major rasped. “Ah well, just time for another round. Chardonnay! Four more pints and a triple Cognac!”
Eugene Chippings, funeral director and local franchisee for Pizza Hut, gratefully accepted his pint. “I see that Lawrence Petherington has just entered the tent!” Petherington was Snorby’s leading Gay Rights activist. To be precise, he was Snorby’s only Gay Rights activist. The Major’s face went from its normal florid red to puce. “Don’t mention that shirt-lifting bender to me! The man’s an absolute disgrace! Turning up at Snorby’s Women’s Institute, in drag, took ten years off Mrs Buffington-Gore’s life, I tell ya!”
The Major paused to grab at his brandy, whilst Eugene proffered a light for his cigar. “Ahh! Good man Chippings!” The Major took a long pull on his Cohiba and then let out a thin column of blue smoke. Switching hands the Major spilled his brandy down the front of his blazer and in a reflex action, ground the glowing tip of his cigar into his own lapel. Within seconds, he was ablaze. “Great Scott and damnation!” The major exclaimed, as a wall of fire began to engulf the man. Swiftly Eugene Chippings emptied his pint over the flames. This was followed in quick succession by the other two.
Two minutes later Enoch Gittings from the St John’s Ambulance, was applying on the spot first-aid to the prostrate major. Although the major’s clothes had been extinguished, there were still some glowing embers, so Enoch carefully cut away what was left of the Blazer, shirt and trousers.
The general hubbub of the surrounding crowd swiftly fell silent, as Enoch folded back the last of the outer clothing. There was a collective gasp. The major appeared to be wearing an oyster coloured silk bra and panties. The stunned silence that followed was broken when Lawrence Petherington skilfully negotiated his way through the crowd. Arching a dark pencilled eyebrow he said. “Seems like I’m not the only gay in the village!”
588 words.
The cricket green of Snorby-at-Wisdom buzzed with the sounds of activity. Marquees and side-tents each competed for the visitor’s patronage. The tables supporting the entries in Mrs Wellbodie’s “Fruitcake-Challenge”, were bowing under the weight of the confection.
Reverend Trickle’s wife, Elsie Trickle, was valiantly screaming her marketing cry. “Get your hand crocheted New Testament place markers here!” Much to Elsie’s irritation, there was an impressive queue at the next table where Zara Gushing, Snorby’s celebrity soap star, was dispensing kisses for one pound. All proceeds to go to Reverend Trickle’s church steeple restoration fund.
There was much jocular banter at the tent occupied by corpulent farmer Ted de Juniper, who was inviting guesses as to how much he tipped the scales at. At fifty pence a ticket, the prize of a year’s supply of Ted’s grade ‘A’ eggs was less a draw than the opportunity of insulting the good humoured man-mountain, with wildly exaggerated guesses.
Perhaps predictably, the busiest tent was the beer marquee. This concession was run by Vernon Sneidbury, landlord of local hostelry, the Stoat and Goitre. While the buxom duo of bar maids Tracy and Chardonnay, dispensed foaming pints of best bitter, animated conversations reached ever increasing heights.
Holding court at the end of the bar was Major Buffington-Gore (retired). Trading a pint of beer with a snifter of brandy, the old soldier began to wrestle with a Cuban cigar and a lighter, whilst extolling the evils of the local Labour party councillors. “Damn communists! Ought to be shot!” The Major’s attendant sycophants nodded sagely. Checking his gold hunter, the Major rasped. “Ah well, just time for another round. Chardonnay! Four more pints and a triple Cognac!”
Eugene Chippings, funeral director and local franchisee for Pizza Hut, gratefully accepted his pint. “I see that Lawrence Petherington has just entered the tent!” Petherington was Snorby’s leading Gay Rights activist. To be precise, he was Snorby’s only Gay Rights activist. The Major’s face went from its normal florid red to puce. “Don’t mention that shirt-lifting bender to me! The man’s an absolute disgrace! Turning up at Snorby’s Women’s Institute, in drag, took ten years off Mrs Buffington-Gore’s life, I tell ya!”
The Major paused to grab at his brandy, whilst Eugene proffered a light for his cigar. “Ahh! Good man Chippings!” The Major took a long pull on his Cohiba and then let out a thin column of blue smoke. Switching hands the Major spilled his brandy down the front of his blazer and in a reflex action, ground the glowing tip of his cigar into his own lapel. Within seconds, he was ablaze. “Great Scott and damnation!” The major exclaimed, as a wall of fire began to engulf the man. Swiftly Eugene Chippings emptied his pint over the flames. This was followed in quick succession by the other two.
Two minutes later Enoch Gittings from the St John’s Ambulance, was applying on the spot first-aid to the prostrate major. Although the major’s clothes had been extinguished, there were still some glowing embers, so Enoch carefully cut away what was left of the Blazer, shirt and trousers.
The general hubbub of the surrounding crowd swiftly fell silent, as Enoch folded back the last of the outer clothing. There was a collective gasp. The major appeared to be wearing an oyster coloured silk bra and panties. The stunned silence that followed was broken when Lawrence Petherington skilfully negotiated his way through the crowd. Arching a dark pencilled eyebrow he said. “Seems like I’m not the only gay in the village!”
588 words.