Nicholas Bate

100 Word Story

Exams. Mid-terms. Exams. She loathed them! She reflected on her revision time-table; shame she was a whole week behind, especially as they were tomorrow. The coffee was good: perfectly made with Arabica beans freshly-ground. But. But. It was simply procrastination, she knew that: she had 24h and she needed to sleep some of that. So: notebooks, coloured pens, iPhone (no leave that: cut off all communication/distraction), lecture notes, Michael Porter, personal vision picture (she needed some motivation beyond a wretched grade). Now: she needed to get to the library and grab her favourite seat. Exams. Mid-terms. Exams. She loathed them!

100 Word Story

The car-park was pleasingly empty as her original version green Beetle rolled to a halt and she allowed the Pink Floyd track to finish. Emptying the final dregs of the short Americano dangerously perched in the make-shift cup-holder she grabbed scarf and hat and pushed out into the strong breeze tugging at the vehicle. The clouds were high, matching her mood; the wind racing, propelling her thinking as she strode out across the dunes.  The sea was down-right azure gorgeous: her senses were enlivened. How could today be anything less than a very good day: it wouldn’t. She knew it. 

100 Word Story

San Diego SatNaved. Parking engaged. Meter paid. Watch checked. 0532 indicated. Phone checked. Starbucks visited. Coffee Collected. Sugar (two) added. Horizon scanned. Coffee (grande 3-shot) downed. Jeans off. Shorts On. Hoodie off. Shades stowed. Sun-cream shouldered. Board lifted. Gum binned. Horizon scanned. Photos taken. iPod played. Phone checked. Tyre examined. Tyre kicked. Shades retrieved. Horizon scanned. Jamie met. Hug shared. Jokes exchanged. Boards examined. Horizon scanned. Hot-dogs eaten. Shade sought. Water glugged. Horizon scanned. Girls watched. Several appreciated. Water glugged. Washroom visited. Sun-cream shouldered. Shades stowed. Apprehension upped. Apprehension quelled. Bodies moving. Bodies jogging. Bodies racing. Surf’s up. Life’s buzzin’.

100 Word Story

Lighter. Lighter. Dawn. He stretched, she yawned. Go on. No-you! While it’s still quiet. He shrugged and went. Coffee brewed, newspapers sprawled. Words muttered, debate ensured. Gentle hug, easy smile. Play list selected, rejected. Vinyl on. Louder, louder. Small feet running. ‘Going swimming’ excitement. Can I go…, too? ‘This book is great’, you should read it. Maybe. Maybe? Will you do the shopping while I take the kids? Maybe. Maybe? Maybe! Her warmth. His look. Bigger hug, tumbling passion. Lock the door will you? They need to learn. Don’t be daft. Lock the door. Her eyes: so, so, so…..Saturday Morning.

100 Word Story

With one hand he pulled down the blind to shade from the early-morning sun as he took a sip of coffee with the other. He re-read Friday’s efforts. OK: not so bad. But not as good as he would have liked. This coffee needs milk. So. So. Is he going to fall for this girl, then? He probably would…he’s a hardened PI. But that’s another thread to the story. Jeez. So, back to the unknown body in the mortuary, then?

Or a walk along the beach? He pushed back his chair and headed out. Jeez. How does Grisham do it?

100 Word Story

His 2CV bounced across the cobbles into the small market square. Shutters were closed in every direction, at all elevations. The mini-mart was shut until 330pm and the last of the market traders had long gone. Silence. In the corner of the square he glimpsed the flicker of a TV screen, high on a wall at the back of a bar. That’s where he headed to shelter from the sun. He walked in and as his eyes adjusted to the shade: un Ricard, s’il vous plait. He looked around; yep, this is where he would ‘go dark’ for a week.

100 Word Story

He realised that the final chapter was posing him a dilemma as he looked out across the  beach from his rented cottage.  A month in Cornwall and he had done it: completed the book bar the final chapter, lost seven kilos in weight and given up smoking. But his hero? He had fared well, too: a delicious affair, an escape from the Mafia and forgiveness from his daughter.

A walk along the beach would decide: he pulled on his fisherman’s sweater bought at the street market on his first week-end and stepped out into the cool of the Spring breeze.

100 Word Story

Anyone who watched the movies knew the phrase ‘one last job ‘ was-for an ace safe cracker like Hank-fraught with danger. But as he inhaled deeply on his unfiltered Turkish cigarette and sipped heavily-sugared Earl Grey tea, also like the movies: he needed the money. 62 and he was getting too old for shot-guns and splashed blood. But there was no way he was serving mochas in Starbucks for the rest of his days. No, he reckoned the answer was a little bit of personal psychology. Hence the bank-raid team were meeting tonight at 1900 to plan: The Penultimate Job.

100 Word Story

He stared out from the ferry deck towards the rapidly approaching Seattle.  Buddy Holly’s True Love Ways was playing. Jeez. Love. How a day could change things; how was he going to make it though the week? The trivia of targets, motivating people and selling solutions. Now Doherty was yelling in his ears. F*ck. He dropped his paper cup into the foaming water: irresponsible he knew. But. What to do?  Now bloody McCartney. Love. More love. Yet more love. He turned, flexed his back against the barrier, sighed and closed his eyes. Time would heal: he had to believe it.

100 Word Story

He was sure; about himself that is. But did she realise? She'd sort of given a few clues. But then on the other hand...And he certainly didn’t want to come across as too keen. Although, why not? Bit uncool? Mmm. She might say no. Mmm. Love. Mmm. Love. He stared at the page: this really wasn’t helping his writing, was it? He had to do something. He could drop by at the café: she often wrote there. 234 words. This really wasn’t helping his writing.  He stood and stretched: he really must raise his writing desk an inch or two.