Your SlideShare is downloading. ×
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories
Upcoming SlideShare
Loading in...5
×

Thanks for flagging this SlideShare!

Oops! An error has occurred.

×
Saving this for later? Get the SlideShare app to save on your phone or tablet. Read anywhere, anytime – even offline.
Text the download link to your phone
Standard text messaging rates apply

The last hut and 29 other flash fiction stories

734

Published on

Ever wondered what it was like to be black and British in the 70s? Or who Zyanne might be? Maybe you share the fantasy of meeting Lenny Henry for coffee, or maybe you, too, have a thing for jazz …

Ever wondered what it was like to be black and British in the 70s? Or who Zyanne might be? Maybe you share the fantasy of meeting Lenny Henry for coffee, or maybe you, too, have a thing for jazz musicians with brown eyes.

The Last Hut is a collection of 30 very short stories, mostly fictionalised memoirs, memories, dreams, journal entries, and stories, depicting life as a 70s teenager born to West Indian parents finding a way to grow up in multicultural Britain and beyond.

Click the link below to download an extract of the book, which includes the story THE LAST HUT...

0 Comments
0 Likes
Statistics
Notes
  • Be the first to comment

  • Be the first to like this

No Downloads
Views
Total Views
734
On Slideshare
0
From Embeds
0
Number of Embeds
1
Actions
Shares
0
Downloads
5
Comments
0
Likes
0
Embeds 0
No embeds

Report content
Flagged as inappropriate Flag as inappropriate
Flag as inappropriate

Select your reason for flagging this presentation as inappropriate.

Cancel
No notes for slide

Transcript

  • 1. The Last Hut and 29 other flash fiction stories Diane Corriette
  • 2. 2 Published in 2013 by FeedARead.com Publishing – Arts Council funded Copyright © Diane Corriette, 2013. The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
  • 3. 3 Dedicated To My three children and granddaughter – no one is, or will ever be, more important to me. My mother and BFF Lauretta J – thank you for your continued love and support. The publisher of my future work and my future literary agent; we haven’t officially met yet but I see you in my visualisation every day. Thank you for all your future help and support. My inner voice, who never gave up on me and was always there to scream at me about making this happen – we did it! Short Introduction Some of these flash fiction stories are based on real life experiences (fictionised memoirs) and others are pure fiction. Growing up I never had any real ambition to be anything and never thought about being a writer but I knew I loved to write I just had to find my voice. I hope you enjoy reading these short, short stories as much as I have loved writing them. You will find me hanging out in the usual social media places and at my blog penandi.com Get your copy of my book here http://www.feedaread.com/profiles/4336/
  • 4. 4 Foreword by Nik Perring I first 'met' Diane when she enrolled on the online course I run for very short fiction and one of the first things that struck me, as well as being committed and passionate about the short form, was how bloody quickly she worked. I've been teaching writing, in one way or another, for six or seven years and I'd never seen anyone turn work around as quickly as Diane did. And the work was good too. And when good work and an excellent work ethic meet, the results are usually pretty great. Add to the mix Diane's intelligence and her life experience and it gets even better. So when she asked me if I'd help her put together a collection of her small stories I was delighted. She worked hard and she worked quickly on those too. So here we have thirty small pieces, most moments of Diane's life turned into little fictional memoirs, others not. They're stories about so many aspects of life - about being a woman, about being in or out of love, about being a West Indian in the UK - but mostly they're about being a person, about being alive, and I'm sure you'll enjoy them very much.
  • 5. 5 Contents The last hut 12 Listening (or not!)? 16 The jazz man with the brown eyes 20 The potential do-over 23 The ritual 28 Black and British in the 70s 30 The dream 33 Zyanne 34 Women don’t like questions 37 When? 38 The day I met Lenny Henry for coffee 42 Mama Africa 45 The absent father 48 Middle-aged thoughts 51 Babaloos & the beach – Jen’s Story 54 Babaloos & the beach – Roger’s story 56 The never the better 60 Alzheimer haze of a loving dad 62 76p 65 The West Indian English cup 68 My pillow 71 Living with the Irish 73
  • 6. 6 Get in between us 76 Bohemian girl 78 #Terror 83 The lottery 86 Pleasure between the sheets 88 The threesome that was 90 The day I think I finally got it 92 Golden girls wanted 95
  • 7. 7 The last hut Every summer holiday Aidan and I built a hut in my back garden. The men in his family worked in construction so he supplied the hammer and nails. The wood was sourced from other people’s rubbish – one man’s trash really was our treasure. Old abandoned wardrobes, planks of wood and old floorboards. All of these odd shapes and sizes were pinned together with nails to build what resembled a hut. The hut ended up being as tall and as wide as a room and we spent our summer chilling out in it with friends. At the end of summer the hut was dismantled and the wood piled in a corner of the garden. It was left to await its fate come November 5th when it would be burned to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night. Aidan and I had been friends since birth. There was never anything to our relationship except friendship until one particular summer, at age 15, when having a hut turned into having a house. We spent our summer playing ‘mummy and daddy’. We had chairs, made a bench out of planks of wood for our guests to sit on – although we never got round to inviting anyone in – and we even got hold of cups from our kitchen. When we could, as neither of our families were very wealthy, we would take food out of our kitchen to eat in our hut. If we were feeling particularly brave we’d
  • 8. 8 sneak out some of Aidan’s dad’s Irish whiskey or some of my dad’s Caribbean rum. The hut was usually built without a door. There was never any need to hide what was going on inside, but this year not only did we build a door but we also covered the door from the inside using an old curtain. That way if anyone wanted to enter they had to open the door, which was stiff and made a lot of noise, and then come through the curtain. I can’t remember how our friendship went from being friends to ‘experimenting’ but it did so with ease. We had our hut and the privacy of a door and curtain; so it was easy to kiss and touch each other without being concerned about getting caught. This wasn’t my first experience of being sexually aroused. I had already engaged in some girl-on-girl action when my neighbour Lisa Prizellon wanted me to kiss her and suck her nipple. I wasn’t too keen on doing it, but being shy and being raised to do as I was told I went along with it. My lesbian adventure ended as prematurely as it started and it helped me quickly realise that my interests lie in the opposite sex, not the fairer. The first time I touched Aidan’s knob it was warm and sticky. I never got to see what it looked like because everything happened under the protection of a blanket. According to him this is what mummies and daddies did when they were in their room and the kids were asleep. In return for touching Aidan he put his hands
  • 9. 9 in my knickers. His fingers poked about as if they weren’t sure what they were looking for and as I had no idea either I couldn’t do anything to help him so I just sat there. He told me he enjoyed putting his fingers in my knickers but mostly he preferred me to be touching him. So I happily obliged. One particularly hot summer day Aidan and I were under a blanket I had taken from my mum’s huge collection when my dad walked into the hut. Usually you could hear someone approaching; you could also see them through the gap that we had left as a window. If you missed those two opportunities then the door became the third and final warning that someone was about to enter, but this time neither of us heard the noise of approaching footsteps until it was too late. We were not quick enough to get out from under the blanket. It didn’t help that both of us had our eyes closed. It was Aidan’s turn to leave his eyes open and keep watch but I guess it all got too much for him. By the time we were aware of my dad’s presence he was moving the curtain out the way. I wasn’t sure who was more surprised; him or us. Aidan just had time to push his cock back in his pants and I did my best to pull my dress down. We both appreciated the security of the blanket at that point. My dad’s eyes went from me to Aidan and back to me again.
  • 10. 10 ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Why are you under a blanket in this heat?’ I was afraid of my dad. He had a temper, liked to use the belt as punishment and he was a huge, strong man with a firm grip. I said nothing and he continued, ‘I need you to go to the shop to get some bread for your mother. Go inside and get the money.’ I went inside. My dad followed me and told me to go straight upstairs. He handed the money to my brother and told him to go to the shop with Aidan, who was waiting outside. By the time they returned with bread in hand my dad had smashed the hut. As Aidan walked into the garden I watched from my bedroom window as his face went from laughing at something my brother had said to complete shock at finding the hut torn down and lying in ruins on the garden floor. Our hut was now a pile of rubbish.
  • 11. 11 Alzheimer haze of a loving dad I sat completely still, not even wanting to breathe too loudly. I was hoping he might forget I was here if I didn’t get his attention and he would calm down. ‘Is that CLEAR…!!!???’ he shouted at me again. ‘Yes, Dad,’ I said as my eyes filled with tears. I refused to cry though because I knew I needed to be tougher than this. ‘Well, answer me when I speak to you,’ he screamed. I looked up, despite my fear, and met the very angry eyes of my father, a man who hardly ever raised his eyebrow in disapproval, never mind his voice. I looked straight back down again and tried to remember what Mum had told me. ‘It’s not him, love, it’s the disease,’ she said. ‘Don’t be so sensitive and don’t take it personally.’ Then I remembered her best piece of advice. ‘When he gets angry, go sit in another room for a few minutes and give him some time alone, then come back in and talk to him.’ As if reading my thoughts, Dad got up and left the room. The rain was pouring hard and the snow had turned to slush on this cold January evening, and I prayed he wasn’t about to walk out the front door because that meant I’d have to go after him. Whenever Dad felt angry or frustrated (which was often) he would go for a walk and some fresh air. Most days we walked
  • 12. 12 by his side, but sometimes he’d forget who we were and become angry about the fact that we were ‘following him’. Nowadays we walked ten steps behind him instead. I sighed in relief as I heard the living room door creak open and slam shut. Dad had decided to stay in this time. The slam of the door caused the painting above it to fall. I walked over and picked it up. It was one Dad had painted years ago, when he was younger and first met Mum. A solitary boat bobbed on the sea as the two occupants lay in each other’s arms watching the sunset. On his good days Dad told us the story of how he came to paint that picture and the wonderful time they had on their first holiday away together. The sudden sound of shuffling feet made me run back into the kitchen and sit down. In that moment I really wished I hadn’t agreed to stay with him. It was a cruel thought and I hated myself for thinking it but 90 minutes with Dad seemed like a lifetime. There was less than 20 minutes before Mum returned and I reminded myself that she deserved a break. I felt guilty as I realised that this was something he would never get a break from, and that life for Dad would always be lived in a haze. As he entered the kitchen I said with as much cheer as I could muster, ‘Want a cuppa, Dad?’ He placed his hand on my back and gave it a pat.
  • 13. 13 ‘Good idea,’ he said. I went over to put the kettle on. Dad looked at me. ‘I get so fed up sometimes,’ he said, and I knew that was his way of saying he was sorry. I didn’t know what to say. I never did. I knew Dad felt bad. He always knew he had been angry. Sometimes he was visibly upset at the fact that one of us was crying because of something he had done. Although he knew deep down that he was the cause of our tears he was never quite sure why or what he had done. I put a teabag in his cup, got his favourite biscuits out and continued making the tea. Get your copy of my book here http://www.feedaread.com/profiles/4336/
  • 14. 14 Get in between us ‘I saw it on The Inbetweeners,’ I explained, ‘it’s hilarious.’ I handed her phone back to her and it rang instantly. We looked at each other and started laughing. ‘Don’t answer it,’ I told her. ‘Not yet, anyway. You have to let me send him a couple more first.’ The next text message was more explicit. It told him how desperate she was to give him another blowjob and to eat his KFC, which we all knew was a euphemism for something completely different. The phone rang again and we fell about laughing. ‘He must be so horny for you right now,’ I joked. We let it go to voicemail, but no message was left. One more text message and that’s it, we agreed. We had seen a photo of him in his bedroom on Facebook. This time the language was not only sexual but it described what we wanted to do to him on his purple bedspread with pink matching cushions – just the two of us girls and him. We mentioned how much we each loved his grey and purple curtains and wanted to do all kinds of nasty stuff up against his lovely sash windows.
  • 15. 15 Within a few seconds the phone rang and in fits of laughter we answered. Jerry was a great laugh and we knew he wouldn’t mind us messing about with him. ‘This is Jerry’s wife,’ the hysterical woman at the other end screamed. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ We hung up.
  • 16. 16 Get your copy of my book here http://www.feedaread.com/profiles/ 4336/
  • 17. 17 The writing of The Last Hut When I first decided I wanted to seriously pursue writing fiction in November 2012 (rather than just talking about it) I had no idea what type of writing I wanted to focus on but I knew I wanted to write. I was already writing non-fiction eBooks but I wanted to do more. I can’t remember exactly how I came across a genre called flash fiction or short, short stories but I immediately connected with it. I loved its brevity and something in the way the stories were written resonated with me. I call flash fiction the Twitter of the literary world because you have to get your point across with fewer words than a short story and far less words than a novel. Flash fiction for me is almost like taking a photograph. The camera forever captures a person’s expression in that second as it clicks and that photo tells a story of that exact moment. For me flash fiction is about writing about a specific moment or event. There is no time for background and sometimes you have to write and leave conclusions to the reader. I love that. With genre chosen and ideas flowing I started to write. I love the idea of writing memoirs or life writing one day and many of my first 30 stories are based on events that happened. They are retelling an event but by applying plenty of fiction in some cases and in others they are all pure fiction. I wanted to include a little of everything that is important to me in my life in this first book.
  • 18. 18 Below is a summary of the idea behind each story. The Last Hut I actually spent a lot of my childhood summers building a “hut” with a few of my friends. Being a tomboy I loved constructing it and even in adult hood my love of starting things, planning them out and putting them together still lives on. This story is about the very last hut that we made at the age of 15 and the circumstances that lead to it being the final one. Listening (or not)? This story focuses on my inner voice and the first time I heard it speak to me quite clearly during an incident that took place in my local swimming pool. I can’t remember my exact age but I think I was 10 years old. It then goes on to tell some of the other moments I listened and didn’t listen and the consequences. Some of these moments are made up and some of them are true. The jazz man with the brown eyes This is one of my first “future” stories. It is telling a story of the future me doing an activity I actually want to do in a few years – moving to and working in another country for a few months. In this story the country is France and despite having plans to focus only on herself those plans change on her very first day. The potential do-over This was inspired by a journal entry. I wondered what it would be like if I could go back and talk to my teenage self and tell her to pick her ideas up and make our future life different. In this story I go over some of the things I would have said to my younger self.
  • 19. 19 The Ritual The older generation are great at sticking to rituals and routines. They do something in a certain way and they want it done in exactly the same way day in and day out. In this story I talk about my thoughts as it relates to rituals and routines and my desire to break this person out of theirs. Black and British in the 70s Growing up as a teenager was a confusing time for me in terms of my ethnicity and heritage. A trip to the Caribbean and I was told I was not one of them and was British but the hatred and “go home” campaign taking place taught me I wasn’t wanted in England either. This story covers the period before all of that made any sense to me. The dream I wrote this because I missed someone I was in love with but no longer dating. I would never tell him I wanted him back because I don’t believe in going back only forward so after our break up the only thing to do was to work through the pain of losing him. There were many dreams. This was one of them that I wrote out as a poem originally. Zyanne I have always wanted to give myself an exotic name. Like Madonna or Prince I wanted to be known by just one name and that name is Zyanne. I haven’t fully adopted it yet but I do use it in online forums and social media. This is the story of how I chose the name Zyanne thanks to a man at the bookies.
  • 20. 20 Women don’t like questions I don’t recall the origin of this story but I know it had something to do about my annoyance with men who want to know everything about you, including minute by minute movements during the day, but who never want to tell you anything. When? This story was inspired by a song I love during which the musician talks about the fact that he must follow his path of being a singer/song writer and although there are struggles now it will all work out. I applied the story to a life of a writer. A single mother and her teenage daughter who is fed up about missing out on stuff because her mum never has enough money. The day I met Lenny Henry for coffee I love Lenny Henry. LOVE him. So it was only right that in my debut story book I included one of the many thousands of stories I have written about him, him and I, him with me, me with him... you get the picture. It was difficult to choose. I decided to choose one that my mother could read without raising her eyebrows and this is it. Mama Africa On holiday in Italy a man selling roses tried to get me to buy one by calling me Mama Africa. Every time we saw him he came up to our table with his mama Africa routine and tried to get me to buy a rose. I thought it was a powerful name so I used it to represent a powerful woman who refuses to let tradition dictate her life.
  • 21. 21 The absent father This story outlines what happens when a mother sees the father of her children who is refusing to help her. The story is true and based on me feeding the mother and giving her a place to stay for a few months after her babies were born. Babaloos and the beach – Jen’s story When I was 18 I went topless on the beach in Greece... eventually! It was my first holiday abroad with my boyfriend and being shy and insecure it took me ages to finally take my bikini bra off because I had a million and one things going through my head about why I shouldn’t. The event is true but the way it is depicted in the story is not. Babaloos and the beach – Roger’s story This story came out of an exercise I was given to write one story from two different points of view. After writing the story about Jen I decided to write a story based on how her boyfriend retold the event. The never the better Do you love for love or for money? If money has been a huge part of your love with a partner are you willing to walk away from it all? This story outlines the viewpoint of one woman and her friends and their different perspective on answering that question. This story is pure fiction! Alzheimer haze of a loving dad I did care work for a few months when money was tight and I was looking into where my future was heading. I looked after a man who made me cry when he turned on me. It wasn’t him of course it was his illness but it took me ages to get over it. I don’t believe
  • 22. 22 I was adequately trained to deal with it and this story tells what happens but uses a relationship between a father and a daughter. 76p What would you do if you had 76p left in the bank and you had to live on it? Could you manage? This is a true story, a journal entry, covering a dark period when money was really, really tight. It was a period that lasted several months and still haunts me but I got through it. The West Indian English cup I was taken to a cricket match as a first date. I loved it. Two teams full of West Indian men, food, music and plenty of conversation. Based on that event I made up this story. It covers being a young child and the fun of getting together with other families. My pillow Growing up I was taught to eat before I went out to a party in case there wasn’t enough food. I was raised to fear hunger and I still do! This story focuses on the West Indian habit of catering for their own needs even when they are going to a high class hotel that probably has everything they could ever need. Living with the Irish Growing up not only was I a tomboy but all the boys I hung out with where of Irish decent. This story focuses on my love of all things Irish and how much I enjoyed being part of their family. They welcomed me with open arms and colour was never an issue.
  • 23. 23 Get in between us My son and his friends upset some girls one day by sending them explicit text messages. The school got involved and I made him sit and write out why it was wrong to do what he did. I used what they did to help me write this story based on two female adults who are teasing a male friend. Bohemian Girl This is the second of my “future” stories in which I write about travelling in a camper van, visiting different parts of the UK and the people I meet. In this story I introduce my love of the Welsh and Wales. #Terror A writing prompt on a blog asked us to write about social media and the lack of privacy. That is how this story came about and focuses on a girl who is running from something after her antics have been shared on social media. She has no idea if what she is running from is real but it feels real to her at the time. The lottery This story is based on a story that a friend told me about a son who had been asked to buy a lottery ticket but he spent the money on something else. Pleasure between the sheets I outline how much pleasure I enjoy between the sheets in this story and give you some insights into how to enjoy your own pleasurable experience too. The threesome that was This story is definitely made up and focuses on a woman who is doing her best to give up her past vices that were having a negative impact on her life and be
  • 24. 24 more positive and responsible in the future. The trouble is when your past catches up on you it can be very easy to be tempted back into old habits. The day I think I finally got it This story focuses on the moment I realised that my thoughts were all in the wrong place and how I could change the pattern of my life by changing my thoughts. It is based on a journal entry and in the story I am reading a journal entry and telling people how I transformed my life. Golden girls wanted The third and final “future” story which focuses on my desire to live with three other women as I get older who I have fun and adventures with. I never understand why older people live alone when they could just get together with two or three other people and have company. This was inspired by the 80s comedy called The Golden Girls and I have always said that if I find myself single when I get to age 60 I would love to live with a few girlfriends. Get your copy of my book here http://www.feedaread.com/profiles/ 4336/

×