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Revisited -> Ten Minute Tale – The mistruths that I tell myself: a love story – A Pat Feige inspiration – 05OCT2013

Ten Minute Tale – The mistruths that I tell myself: a love story – A Pat Feige inspiration – 05OCT2013″ />

I wrote this in about 12 minutes last year as part my “Ten Minute Tale” writing exercises. Sadly I have no recollection of actually penning it.

“Aggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Head in hands seated at the local pub. The stained wooden bar top incapable of anything more than returning his stare.
Forty, fat, broken, and no longer of use to anyone.

Bloody ‘if only’ he thought. I would have been better off never meeting and marrying it. Twenty three and went off and married to a woman that had no right to wear white down a matrimonial aisle.
“Bloody ‘if only’ I had gone through with Medicine at Newcastle Uni, as soon as I was accepted in late 1995.
Bloody ‘if only’ she had of actually slapped me around the ear and told me I was waiting until I was thirty, instead of politely telling me it wouldn’t happen until we were 30, and then marrying her. Degree would have been complete; I would have been far better off to put a ring on her finger.
Bloody ‘if only’ the warzone I found myself stuck inside hadn’t been the place I inhabited for a year. ‘If only’ I hadn’t gone there my head would be right and I wouldn’t have decided against Medicine.
Bloody ‘if only’ the bloody old man hadn’t sold up forcing me into such a profession. That bloody life I love but cannot live.
Bloody love. Bloody love. ‘If only’ I had of got the head and heart to work as one. Not as bloody opposing forces.
Bloody life. ‘If only’ I wasn’t broken. ‘If only’ I had of followed the heart properly. ‘If only’ I didn’t live in this shit hole town. ‘If only’ the life I missed.
‘If only’……………….”
“If only you would shut the hell up!” As a barmaid she was brilliant. Being Irish only proved to strengthen her position.
“You’re pissed, and after that rant, you’re cut off. Get the hell out of the pub ya wanker, and cry yourself ter sleep at home or some gutter ya tosser!”
He stood, leaving a half-finished pint behind him, and stumbled through the door. Two or three minutes later, the muffled rifle crack eliciting from the lowered front window of his old car, was heard by no one at all. The juke box covered that.
Story 6/10, word count – 378; time – 12.02
The time taken to complete renders this yarn as an immediate fail. That said, I have a soft spot for the main character, as I think there is a bit of us all in him.

About Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.


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Hamish Ross

Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.

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