Share Your Short Story – September

Author Stevie Turner is inviting you to share your short story or poem on her blog in September. Great opportunity to showcase your work, and as an added bonus, Stevie has shared one of her own short stories, which is beautiful… tissue alert.

Stevie Turner

Authors can share their short stories (less than 2000 words please) or poetry, and it won’t cost you a penny! The deadline this month is 27th September.  Stories or poems can be on any subject, but please keep them reasonably family friendly. On 29th September I will pick a winner and runner up and share the links in my newsletter and on my Facebook and Twitter pages. Please ensure that you add your story to this current month’s submission page and not any previous month, or it may be missed.

I look forward to reading your efforts. The winner and runner up will receive these laurels to add to their story:


Here’s one of my short stories for you:


Emily could see clumps of snow settling on the tree’s branches outside her bedroom window; each flake falling tantalisingly just out of reach.   Next…

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5 thoughts on “Share Your Short Story – September

  1. Pingback: Share Your Short Story – September | Campbells World

  2. Hi guys! Here’s my contribution, both poem and story:


    Bicycles rule in Amsterdam,
    please get out of the way!
    Faced with a bevy of bicycles,
    you’ll be sorry for the rest of the day.

    I’ve been to the city at least five times,
    twice went with Husband as well.
    We hired a tandem and peddled quite hard.
    He was in charge of the bell.

    We swooped over bridges and alongside canals.
    Remember they drive on the right.
    We entered the traffic with hearts in our mouths,
    we must really have looked quite a sight.

    Leaning hard to the right and then to the left,
    we careered throughout the town.
    Pedalling around the tourist spots
    alongside canals up and down.

    We stopped for a while and dismounted somehow,
    and drank coffee by the canal,
    then we remounted and off we went,
    and flew along as a finalle.

    When it was over we returned our machine,
    puffing and panting like mad.
    What fun we had had going like the wind,
    it was over but we felt quite glad!

    It was hard work and tandem is tricky
    when you’ve never cycled abroad,
    but bicycling in Amsterdam town
    I sure felt we deserved an applaud!


    I first encountered Nicholas and Joan in San Francisco in 1978. She was Asian American and he was white American – or was it the other way round? They approached me as I strode the street, my camera slung on my chest. A dead giveaway. I was twenty-five, just the right age. They smiled.
    ‘Hello, are you a tourist?’
    Duh. I grinned in the affirmative. I hadn’t a clue. So naive. We chatted vaguely about my trip, and they asked me if I’d like to join them and their friends for a meal that night. They handed me a purse-sized address card and told me to think about it. I thought about it. The white card had a print of a black and white drawing of a Victorian terraced house with steps leading up to the front door. It even quoted the bus routes and times.
    Not a clue. So naive.
    At that time I had a close friend called Gordon back in the UK. My surname was Bennett and he’d quip: ‘Hey – if we got married, I’d be Gordon Bennett.’ Gordon was eccentric to the core. He was also a genius. A whizz on the pianoforte, a potter, a horticulturalist, and later, a diplomat, although we couldn’t fathom the last. Gordon? A diplomat? Hah! I’d met Gordon through our local 18+ social club, and I looked up to him enormously. His zany social life and umpteen zillion friendships (mostly female) gave me cause for real envy. My parents loved him and his mother wanted us to marry.
    Back in San Francisco I pondered over the card. What would Gordon do in a similar situation? He’d probably go for it. I returned to my cheap, gay hotel, listened to the gay men in the hallway having an argument and inspected my moth-eaten bed and the bug crawling in the basin. That clinched it. I was going.
    I found the right bus, and, a short drive later, climbed the steps to the house. I remember most of it to this day. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who welcomed me warmly, asked me to remove my shoes and that I donate a cent into the basket on a shelf to my right. I should have twigged. Not a sausage, an inkling. She opened a door to my left – a living room – and introduced me to the bunches of kids, all around my age, sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor. I joined one of the bunches and sat cross-legged. I can’t remember much about that – what we talked about (probably about my Greyhound bus trip around the States) – but I do remember being given a plate of delicious stew followed by equally delicious carrot cake. I think it was the first time I’d had carrot cake. I do remember very well asking if they had wine, and joked about it, feeling a little rude.
    ‘Oh, no. We don’t have alcohol. Only water.’
    Humph. What kind of people were these, anyway? The room was cleared. Chairs set up, as though for a lecture. Okaaay. I sat next to Joan, my new found Indian ‘friend’, who put her hand on my knee and proclaimed: ‘I love you, my sister.’ Or something on those lines. Remember, this was umpteen zillion years ago. Well, over thirty. I moved further apart.
    A blackboard was brought in, followed by a middle-aged man smartly dressed in black business suit and tie. The only part of this apparent lecture that’s vividly etched on my Hippocampus was when he scrawled the words ‘parental authority’ on the board and then energetically circled the words in order to emphasise them. All the youngsters in the room vehemently nodded. I vehemently shook my head. I must have known by then. Not only was as I mature enough to know better, but I remember eyeing a young man perched on a bookcase and thought: ‘I hope they don’t get him.’ I knew. I had clearly had an inkling for a while.
    But there was more to come. Various young people took to the stage, accompanied by cries of ‘My sister, my sister…’, ‘My brother…’, spouting rubbish poetry or playing hippy guitars, and periodically Joan or Nicholas or both had been prone to putting their hands on my knee and proclaiming how much they loved me. ‘I’m very loveable.’ I should have said. Instead I’d move up again.
    Finally, when all the postulations about loving me and all the hippy entertainment was over, everybody started talking. Nicholas and Joan and friends said: ‘You must come with us up to Oregon. We have a farm up there. We’re a community and it’s beautiful. Do come.’ Or something on those lines. My suspicions were on high alert.
    ‘Thank you but no thank you. I have a bus to catch tomorrow and I mustn’t miss it.’
    ‘Would you like a lift back to your hotel?’ They asked. Of course I should have said no, but me being me, I said yes please. What a plonker. They drove me back to my gay hotel in their Volkswagen Beetle, and Nicholas – or Joan – gave me a card with another address.
    ‘This is so and so. She’s with the Unification Church in London. She’s lovely and we love her (of course you do!). Do look her up.’
    And then, as we approached my cheap, shoddy hotel, I said:
    ‘Are you the Moonies, by any chance?’ As you do. Huge guffaws of laughter all around. They stopped and dropped me off. I think they’d given me up as a non-starter. Unbrainwashable. I popped into the hotel and told the young, male receptionist, who was adorned with a goatie beard and wearing a kimono, where I’d been. He exploded.
    ‘Don’t you ever do a thing like that again! You promise?’
    Gay hotels and bugs in basins had nothing on the Moonies.
    I returned to the States the following spring and popped into San Francisco again. This time I played safe in a park full of harmless hippies for lunch and listened to their rubbish renderings of poetry and music. Always wanted to be a hippy. No-one approached me.

    Jo Clutton, Hampshire, UK


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