Letter To A Wolf

Thanks to the BBC 

I wrote this short story a while ago after a trip to Sweden to record a programme on wolves.  While we were there the pack of wolves we had been following (we didn't see them, only their tracks) were highlighted to be culled.  Here is the story i wrote when I heard the news...

Letter to a Wolf by Mary Colwell

Death By Chocolate - a short story

From Reflections of a Curlew image by ed g2s

Ok - it is a gross story but it is based on a true incident that happened when I worked as an auxiliary nurse in a geriatric ward in Stoke-on-Trent, many years ago now. I wrote it for a competition so it had to have this title.

For audio version see my Short Shorts page on my website. It is read by Alison Sterling.



Yum - enjoy

Death By Chocolate

Susan stared despondently at her half grapefruit, slice of whole-wheat toast and black coffee, day two of her diet and it was unrelentingly awful. Not that she was very large, not really, but she decided to try yet again to lose weight after Maggie, 93 and long term resident of the geriatric ward she worked on, had said jovially “You’ll have no trouble getting a man nurse, nothing wrong with you a pair of corsets wouldn’t put right.”

It wasn’t that she craved lots of food, just sweet things now and then like a nibble of a biscuit with coffee, a thin slice of cake with afternoon tea and a small scoop of ice cream with chocolate sauce while watching TV in the evening. How could such tiny quantities pile on the pounds? She remembered last night’s Weight Watchers meeting and the golden rule: “Always be honest about what you eat!” She sighed for the 5^th time that morning - and it was only quarter past six: “well perhaps not always such small nibbles” Susan loved life and loved food - oh why couldn’t the two go together? Can you really be happy and thin?

Matron of the geriatric ward was a good soul but strict about cleanliness; what with all the deadly viruses in hospitals these days, she was right to insist on it. Ignoring her gurgling stomach Susan listened to the morning briefing. The usual bed-baths, toileting and tidying the ward had to be done well, along with organising the arrival of new patients and the departures of those going home. Mr O’Nions was off today “it may sound amusing nurse but we have a coat of arms you know”. And Mr Blake was leaving after a stay of 4 weeks. Mr Blake intrigued Susan.

Mr Blake - he objected to being called by his Christian name Sidney - was 85 and very thin. He had cold, watery eyes and there were no laughter lines to hint at any joy in earlier life. “Morning Mr Blake, off today I see,” chirped Susan. But as usual she was met with a stare that would stop a clock. “Now, I’m going to give your son a sheet of paper with instructions on food. You make sure you eat lots of fruit and vegetables. We need to sort out your constipation.” “That’s right Sidney” said the ever-homely Ethel, an auxiliary nurse who had worked on this ward for years. “If you keep pooing like a sheep it means you are not eating the right food and drinking enough water! You don’t want to see those little balls. You want soft ones deary.” Lovely way with words had Ethel.

A wave of compassion came over Susan, even though she couldn’t find much to like about Mr Blake. Why no sense of humour or conversation? What had happened in his life to make him so rigid and blocked? Presumably once he’d been a happy toddler, a hormone filled teenager and a young man with a passion for life? After all he had a son. But it was hard to imagine him holding hands, let alone making love. She perched on the side of his bed and gently touched his thin forearm. “Look after yourself now Mr Blake, I hope you’re feeling better.” He jerked away with unnecessary force and shot her a look so full of disdain she almost cried.

At 11.00 am Derek Blake arrived to take his father home. He bought the ward a large box of Maltesers as a thank you. “Damn! My favourite” thought Susan and almost resented him for his kindness.

Susan watched the thin, bent-over figure of Mr Blake leave without a word or a glance at anyone. Matron opened the box of Maltesers. “Now this really is torture,” thought Susan, but remembered Clarisse from Weight Watchers – “a minute on the lips a lifetime on the hips ladies!” “Distract yourself Susan, distract yourself.”

She went over to Mr Blake’s empty bed and started to strip the sheets and clear out his locker. “My goodness, a small box of Maltesers! Perhaps he does have a wild side after all,” called Susan to Ethel, waving the red box. Ethel was crunching on yet another sweet, honeycomb jewel smothered in milk chocolate. The balls of delight rattled in the box, demanding her attention. “Bless him - hard soul that one," said Ethel "something turned him. But I did see him eating maltesers the other day. He dropped the box and they went all over the floor, you wouldn’t believe how far a ball of chocolate can roll. Derek bought him some more.” Susan held the unopened box and her fingers lingered over the cellophane wrapper just a little too long, but eventually she gave it to Ethel; it could be added to the gift, no point in sending it back.

This diet was getting harder and harder. How she craved just one chocolate covered crunchy sweet – just one – she felt her resolve waning.

Susan continued to clean around and under the bed. To her surprise she found a few maltesers on the floor, right at the back by the wall, left over from when he dropped the box no doubt. Her hands, protected by disposable gloves reached for one. It was small, round and sat prettily in the palm of her hand and looked delicious in the dim light under the bed. The chocolate cover seemed a little dry, but chocolate can go dull. She’d eaten plenty in her time and it tasted just as good. A fierce battle commenced. The floor under the bed was clean, thanks to Matron, the malteser was only dropped recently so perhaps a little dusty but it would still be fine, so what harm would one do?

Mantras from Weight Watchers flooded back as she stared at temptation “Food Does Not Control Me” “Fat is Not Funny” and so on. But her hand moved ever closer to her mouth. “Stop before it is too late Susan!” she screamed to herself. But she was out of control. The urge for sugar was overwhelming and as she put the small, brown piece of sin up to her mouth Ethel called out – “Oh – and look out for some of Mr Blake’s sheep droppings, I tipped his bed pan over yesterday.”

The Picture Straightener

Art Gallery Assistant - Banksy

Another short story. They keep on coming at the moment, but I fear Christmas will now put an end to all fancy. I have had the image of a "picture straightener" for ages but only just got down to writing a story about him.

The Picture Straightener

Harold was a good soul with a warm centre to his world and oak solid posts that supported his life, compassion, integrity and good manners. He was one of those people you just know is decent and kind; a perfect neighbour and a perfect stranger.

Harold worked at the town’s art gallery, one of those people who sit in the corner by the fire extinguisher and just keep an eye on things. It was a good job for him because people liked him and for as long as he could remember he had a real eye for the horizontal. Even if most people thought a picture was hanging straight he knew it was slightly off, and every time he was right if it was checked with a spirit level. He wasn’t paid to do it but each day he walked around the gallery just to check all was hanging as it should be. A slight adjustment here, a tiny tilt there, then the doors could open with pride.

The week of his retirement Harold felt a little sad. He would miss his colleagues for sure but he would also miss the connection he had made with the paintings; some had been there for years. Battle scenes, lovers, vast landscapes, heroes, magnificent red deer - none of them was particularly famous; they were all by lesser-known artists but in his opinion none the worse for that. There was no pressure to admire or analyse them or to stand looking at them with an air of great appreciation. These were just somebody’s attempt at a glimpse of the truth. Harold had never really liked photographs, in his opinion they were snapshots of an instant in time that was fleeting and didn’t represent anything real. Photographs don’t tell the back-story or give us a hint of the lives behind the smiling faces. He much preferred art; it was full of detail that led you to ponder rather than remember. For that reason he had never owned a camera.

On Monday morning of the last week Harold was pleased to see a new painting arrive and placed in one of the smaller rooms set aside for visiting works of art. The small information sign said it was called The Seamstress. What a lovely picture! A young and beautiful woman, with dark hair swept back in a bun, sat in the woods embroidering a piece of white cloth. She was wearing the most beautiful grey dress that flowed down to the ground and the artist had captured the filtered sun softly glistening on the silken folds. Her seat was a log in a glade and she was glancing up from her work as though she had just been disturbed. There was no alarm on her face, just an inquiring look that went past the observer to an unknown figure behind. Harold turned round to see if someone was really there! What a captivating scene, human and natural beauty in gentle light. He called the young woman Florence for no other reason than it seemed to suit. What was she looking at? A lover? A friend? And why sit in a woodland clearing to sew? He stepped back to get a wider view; yes the picture was hung just right. Welcome Florence, I hope you will be very happy here Harold thought to himself. You silly old duffer! She is a painting! But he still felt a sense of pride and joy that she was gracing this B-rated gallery. What a treasure awaited those who wandered in now and then.

Tuesday was rainy, probably not much traffic through the gallery today, why was it that bright sunshine and dreary rain put people off galleries? But Harold still began with his daily straightening round, every visitor mattered and every painting mattered; numbers didn’t concern him. The Muses needed a tiny adjustment, as did The Death of Socrates but otherwise all was well. He found himself hurrying uncharacteristically to Florence, how about that he thought, his last week and still something to look forward to. There she was, still glancing at the unknown, still beautiful – but tilted! “Now how did that happen Flo?” He chuckled to himself, “only known you one day my dear and I’m being familiar already.” The picture had offset to the right, not by much, but obvious to him. He moved it back to the horizontal, gave Florence a smile and carried on with his day.

On Wednesday Harold was well aware that there was not much time left at the gallery. He had plans for his retirement, including going on a safari which had been a long held ambition, but what with family expenses and a wife who had been ill for many years the time was never right. He closed his eyes as he remembered June who had been taken from him 5 years ago. Even now the pain of grief sometimes swept him onto a foreign shore. He had learned to keep still and let the force of the flow roll him over the razor sharp stones, but then slowly the pain ebbed away, back to the darkness of the ocean. God rest you June.

The morning round was uneventful; everything seemed to be behaving on the horizontal front, although Virgin on the Shore was maybe a little out. But in the far room for visiting works of art there was one exception; The Seamstress had once again slipped to the right. He frowned as he looked at the frame. It was definitely offset and, it might just be his imagination, but he thought Florence had moved very slightly too, along the log to the right. It would be indiscernible to most people but Harold’s eye for detail hadn’t let him down yet. Her gaze was steadfast as ever but as Harold moved the painting back to the horizontal he fancied, for a fleeting second, a look of irritation flashed across her face. Now Harold he thought, it is about time you hung up the peaked cap, you are definitely going soft in the head. As he turned to go he turned to look at her – she was straight in her frame and still beautiful but maybe not quite so content?

On Thursday Harold had many things to do. A new recruit was visiting him to learn the ropes, his locker needed clearing out and he had to collect his mug and plate from the staff room. He would take them home tonight and bring a flask tomorrow. His straightening round was a little later than usual but when he did get around to it, yet again Florence was wonky. He was sure now that she had shifted her weight ever so slightly to the right on the log, making the picture tilt to one side. No doubt the public would walk past and not give it a moment’s thought – but Harold couldn’t let it be. Once again he moved the frame back and once again he fancied he saw wave of annoyance sweep across her smooth face. “What is it love? Why do you keep moving? What can I do to make you happy here? My last week and I’ve failed to make it just right.” Tears pricked his eyes, but all he saw in Florence was a questioning look in to the distance.

Friday was his goodbye party. He felt an air of apprehension and for the first time a feeling of emptiness. His house seemed cavernous and he had put away the pictures of June, he couldn’t stand seeing them for hours each day; happy smiles, deep sadness. The months ahead looked worryingly lonely, despite all his plans, family and friends. “So this is it” he thought. “This has been your working life and now it is coming to an end. He hadn’t saved anyone’s life or made the world a better place for the poor, but too late now to have those thoughts old chap.”

He took time over his straightening round; each picture got a slight touch, more for old time’s sake than necessity. But once again Florence had defiantly shifted to the right. He stared at her implacable face, the softness of her hair and her delicate hands. Who are you? As he went to put the frame back he stopped. Her face had changed from questioning to pleading. He moved away to look at her for a long while. Memories of picnics in woods with June and the children flooded back. Logs were great fun to run along and sit on to chat, but he did remember they were never as comfortable as they looked. Annoying bumps and lumps made sitting in one place for too long a chore. “I think I understand Flo” he thought at last. “Well that is ok, I won’t bother you anymore.” As he walked away from her he turned to look for the last time and yes, he wasn’t imagining it, a slight curve at the side of her mouth said thank you.

Peter France reads Viper Lies Coiled

Peter France

Viper Lies Coiled is an allegorical tale based on extremism. Extremists fail to see goodness and beauty in life, fail to see the joy of inquisitiveness and exploration and only desire to see the world as a reflection of themselves. It is read by veteran broadcaster, writer, friend and mentor - Peter France.

Viper Lies Coiled

Viper Lies Coiled

Photo by Per Regnel

A short story - an allegorical tale on extremism:

Viper lies coiled, taught and sleek. Black skin glistens in the rising sun. Beady eyes are ever watchful – waiting. Viper’s eyes never blink, never fade, they are always scanning the horizon and will only see victims. Viper never questions, never wonders, simply obeys.

The wind dances around the leaves, tiny flowers bob with joy in the warming air as the sun blesses the earth. An impish breeze spins round the whirling planets high above and they twinkle and shine. But viper does not see. Viper has a duty to perform and will wait for the correct time. Fangs full of venom, jaws aching to feel a stretch, a stab, a victory. Black coils on dark earth.

Mouse patters, feet light and pink, fleshy soft and warm. Mouse has bright, searching eyes, quivering whiskers and a playful soul. Mouse, feather light, looks and wonders and finds good things amongst the gentle green grass. Fur softly shines in the warming rays.

Viper tightens, eyes narrow. Mouse gaily explores the grassy plain - unaware, naïve and trusting. Viper is ready; venom is dripping from needle fangs. Pitter-patter, clench, lunge and streak of black against green grass. Furry skin is pierced and infused with death. Bright, questioning eyes fade with fear and confusion. Mouse’s alert body twitches in final gasps for life. Viper is satisfied. You are not like me and must die.

Viper lies coiled; sleek back body on dark earth – and waits.

The sun rises higher. A sailor blue forms a colourful gateway to the heavens. The green grass rustles and then parts in obedience. Fleeing figures escape a sinuous, gliding body. Colours flutter away in panic, tiny feet scramble for darkness. Leaves whisper urgently to one another – Black Snake is moving - beware! Viper watches as Black Snake comes near but does not tense in expectation. Viper yearns to strike, but knows the rules. Black Snake is of my tribe and must be allowed to pass unharmed. And dripping venom stays in viper’s mouth, the taste as bitter as gall.

The sun climbs higher; the planets dance their endless waltz, warmed by a wind so gentle and so vital it buffets and teases their rocky hearts. The soul of the earth sighs a longing sigh and life goes on. Mouse’s body is cool against the warming dark earth.

A burst of song suddenly brightens the air. It is beautiful, lyrical, ascending to heights and plummeting to depths. The song stirs the weary in their dark recesses and brings a tingle of joy to every sense. If the song were a painting it would explode with colour and pure delight. Nymph forms would flutter across blue pools and rest their fairy heads against cools shells and smooth pebbles while rainbows twinkle above. This is a song for the earth, for the planets, for all that has life. Who is singing such a wonderful song?

Viper only hears an approach of a victim.

Bird strides through the plain, head thrown back to expose a pulsating throat. Out of bird’s strong beak bursts forth its heavenly song. Bird is brightly coloured, with a stately tail and long, powerful legs. Bird struts proudly and sings with tremendous energy. The air shivers and brims to overflowing with magical notes.

Viper is stirred to a fury and strikes, leaping from coils to an arrow-like form. Viper shoots through the air and sinks needle fangs into bird’s exposed throat. Venom fires through feathery skin. The song stops in mid flow. Bird’s legs begin to crumple and falter and the colourful body slowly collapses. Bird’s heart gradually stops beating as pain gives way to death. Silence falls over the plain. The breeze ceases playing with the planets, the trees no longer chatter and the sun burns with a dead heat. Viper settles down again, coiling with precision. You are not like me and must die.

Mouse and bird lie side by side, the result of duty well done.

The sun marches on, but with a sombre heart and is glad to sink lower in the sky.

In the cool of the evening Great Creature walks the plain. Great Creature’s hair streams amongst the heavens and wraps around the frozen planets. They begin to slowly whirl again, awoken from their reverie by gentleness. Great Creature is full of contentment and talks to the leaves, who begin to gently flutter.

Great Creature sees the lifeless bodies of bird and mouse and bends down to lift them to moist lips. Oh woe! Who did this to such bright and lovely things? Great Creature’s eyes fill with tears and wash down over feather and fur. Contentment transforms to fathomless sorrow. Great Creature’s heart is breaking.

Viper watches and tenses. You are certainly not like me, your death must occur at my command.

Great Creature slowly lays the bodies down to the dark earth as the boughs of the trees bend in respect. Viper is more than ready; fangs are bursting with rich poison. With one leap viper sinks death needles into Great Creature’s hand, pumping venom deeper and deeper into soft flesh. Again and again viper jabs, all that are not like me must die!

Great Creature wraps strong fingers around vipers writhing body. Viper’s head jerks in attack and tail whips in fury. Great Creature lifts viper high towards the setting sun and viper feels the heat on dark skin. They look each other in the eyes. Great Creature sees in Viper hate, duty and precision. Viper sees in Great Creature’s eyes the vastness of mystery ever unfolding. A strange feeling seeps through viper’s body as energy drains away. Viper draws spent fangs back into fleshy sheaths. The wriggling, lashing body hangs limp. Great Creature softly lays viper down onto dark earth, exposing the pale underbelly to the warmth of the last rays of sun and the soft caress of the playful wind. Viper’s head rests on a pillow of green grass. Viper’s eyes see the world from a new place, the upside down towering trees and the bobbing flowers. Viper sees whirling planets and whispering leaves. Viper is distracted from duty and for the first time ever, viper wonders.