Nicholas Bate

100 Word Story.

As he punched his alarm for the third time, hard-bitten PI Jack Stromm-one time LAPD detective-strained his eyes against the early morning California sunshine. He scanned his room: empty beer bottles, stacked legal pads. A set of broken binoculars and night-vision glasses. Various empty fast-food containers and a DVD of the Shield, series 3. Jeez.
He had a problem. And it was not just the state of his Life. No: his current case was sh*t. Two weeks in and not a single lead. The apparent hostage had just totally disappeared. He needed a break because he needed the money.
His cell rang.

100 Word Story

The book-shop was quiet that Thursday morning and he was not initially aware of the other browser until the book fell from the shelf and he turned to help. Their eyes met as he placed the book in her-they had to be-pianist’s hands.
He had never, ever looked so deeply into anyone’s eyes ever before.
As he spoke to her he was aware of her perfume, that she was standing close and that her hair had fallen down over one eye. That she was sexy, thoughtful, courageous and-thank God- read books. Was this true love? And how about a coffee?

100 Word Story

As he sat down at his desk, dawn was breaking: it was going to be the most glorious of day. “It was going to be the most glorious of days”, he typed, “as she clambered into her jeep, upping the iPod volume and turning out for the coast road”. “Her thoughts turned”, he continued, “to her forthcoming novel about the everyday stuff of life which was suddenly turned upside-down”. He stood and considered how quickly the storm had arrived. The lightening synched with the power-cut. The beach-house was remarkably quiet; he felt unusually anxious; the door burst open. He collapsed.

100 Word Story

The room was small; the room was hot. He craved some cooling water; his confidence was plummeting. From not completing his immigration form properly to a full-blown interrogation about smuggled drugs had been remarkably rapid. Home seemed a long way and several time zones away.

Through a tiny window, small clouds travelled at speed across a glorious sky.

'Let's go through this one more time' said the official. Mike had seen enough thrillers to know they didn't want his current answers-true or not.

The perspiration trickled down his back, his shirt was soaked; he was in serious trouble.

Blast from the past: 100 word story

First posted 31 December 2006

He was teased by his mates.
Others had said it was not worth it.
At times he wondered whether he would give up.
Once he sat on the train and decided to give up.
But by the time he got off, he knew he couldn’t. Give up, that is.
His Mum said not to be silly.
His Dad said do something easier.
The bank manger was keen with the forms but otherwise pessimistic.
His Sister said ‘when will you be rich?”
His neighbour said “you’ll be missing the BMW, then”

He said, “stuff it” and launched his start-up any way.

Blast from the Past

first posted December 2006

The air was exceptionally still and remarkably cold. Everywhere. In the trench; within his greatcoat. Between his head and his helmet. In his glove (one was missing). In his boots. And in his food.

He had one last cigarette. Impossible to tell when or whether he would get any more. Now or later? The moon was so clear and full; what humans did was so confused and empty.

Now or later?

At home he would have been in The Anchor. But he hadn’t been there the last three Christmas Eves either.

Now or later?
Now or later?
Now.
Warmth filled him.

Blast from the Past

100 Word Story: first posted 6th December 2006

The shadows were deep; his body ached from being in this position. The cobbles were damp under his feet; his silenced gun was warm from constant drawing and re-holstering.

A taxi. His ‘exit’ contact was definitely meant to walk.

As the passenger replaced his wallet, training-wired into his molecules-caused him to roll over the low wall, sprint four meters to the left, reappear over the wall and make one precise shot at his target; simultaneously a shot hit the spot at which he had been standing seconds previously. His quarry crumpled lazily in an oily pool of blood.

A night wasted.

Story writing is therapeutic, great for your communication-especially presentation- skills. Can be used for scenario planning. Gets the brain working. Reveals inner thinking. Have a go at writing a 100 word story. Be strict: only 100 words.

Blast from the Past 2

Originally posted 4 December 2006.

We'd had a good time doing some Christmas shopping, but those infernal over-packaged bags from each store were mounting up when an assistant in one store asked whether we would like just one bag to hold them all: that'd be great we responded. It was quick, it made our Life easier and the final store now had their brand being displayed to the world.

All it requires sometimes is to 'tune in' to the customer.

What challenges are your customers facing? How -simply by 'noticing'-could you make their lives easier and get them to be even more loyal to your brand.

Blast from the Past 1

Originally posted 3rd December 2006

The wait had been interminable; finally they would be departing. He joined the pushing crowd for the flight to JFK. The stranger near him completed her call; her eyes were filled with tears.
Are you OK? He couldn’t help but ask.
Yes, she said, or I soon will be. Thank you. She looked straight at him and smiled deeply, filling his soul.
I’m off to New York, she added, to teach.
I’m going to learn, he said.
What?
With a slight pause he said: Jungian Synchronicity.
And your teaching?
Fate, Destiny and Belief.
Where are you sitting?
J1
You?
J2.

Story writing is therapeutic, great for your communication-especially presentation- skills. Can be used for scenario planning. Gets the brain working. Reveals inner thinking. Have a go at writing a 100 word story. Be strict: only 100 words.

100 word story

The beach was glorious: long, empty and wind-swept. The sand was white, the drift-wood bleached. His hand held hers tightly, partly in defence against the wind and also in anticipation of their parting. He would never, ever forget this week-end although they both knew it would never, could never, be repeated. He took solace in the line-from whom he couldn't remember-"we've had such a good time, let's not try and do it again". He had to let go.

They turned to walk back. The tide effortlessly washed away their shared foot-prints.

Time to let go.

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