Annaliese

It’s 2am. He is squealing. I’ve heard a pig on its way to the slaughterhouse make less noise, I tell you.

A little detached house, somewhere on the edge of town, that would have suited me. We could have employed a gardener—some muscular, sun-kissed Adonis. That would have been perfect, but no, Gustav always has things his way.
“We already have a house.”

Yes, of course we already have the house in Lugano, and it is perfect: no neighbours. Somehow, he always persuades me to do things I am not sure about
“Let’s mix it up,” he said. “A balcony is easy to look after; we’re hardly going to be there, so we don’t need tonnes of space. The city is a short walk away, and when I’m not around, you will feel safer.”

Everything he said made sense, so I gave up the argument. The agent told me the walls and ceilings were suspended concrete, which apparently blocks out all noise. “Of course, when the balcony doors are open, you will hear noise, but that’s only to be expected in a city.”

It all sounded perfectly reasonable, so I gave up the argument. I don’t mind the distant sounds of city life, but I would have preferred the tweeting of birds to the hum of traffic.

“All you’ll get in the countryside is screeching owls. Have you heard the noises magpies make? It’s enough to send you crazy!” Gustav slipped me his I won smirk.

I relented, and now every night I get to hear the pig next door squealing. The noise is high enough to make you assume only dogs would hear it, but the torturous squeal vibrates my eardrums with chilling precision.

Gustav is in Lugano working on a sound project (funnily enough), and I am here in London to interview candidates for our new luxury personal shopper service. I need to sleep properly. It’s not easy to find the right kind of people. We need extraordinary, cultured, intuitive characters who seem to be rarer than red pandas. I get the candidates to choose the venue for the interview; it’s a good way to find out what their actual taste is rather than what they’d have you believe. There are too many bullshitters in this life, and we need to extract the truffles from the soil.

“So go round and tell them.” Gustav has no patience for my complaints. I can tell he’s only half listening. He is tapping on his keyboard as I speak. We both have our ear pods in; they are super sensitive, so I can pick up every sound in teeth-clenching detail. The TV is on in the background, and I can hear one of those boring car programs he is addicted to watching: a middle-aged presenter yapping on like an excited teen, engines revving.

“I’m not knocking on some stranger’s door I’ve never even met to tell him I can hear his ridiculous sex noises! What if he is some crazy pervert, murderer, or deaf to his own sounds? This apartment was a stupid idea; why did I listen to you, Gustav?” My eyes are sore and my skin sags when I don’t get enough sleep. He lets out a whoosh of breath. This annoys me even more; it suggests I am being unreasonable. He doesn’t have to say it; I know what that whoosh means
“OK, if I disappear, you will know the crazy, noisy sex pig has gobbled me all up, and you will have to run all the businesses on your own.”

Gustav snorts. “Why is it, Annalise, that you have the ability to interview and dissect the characters of a whole bunch of potential geniuses, and yet you can’t deal with knocking on a door to tell a neighbour to shut the hell up?”

“Get lost!” I slammed the phone down. Usually, I would scream some inventive insult at him, but I am too shattered to think of one. Besides, at least he answered the phone at this time in the morning; he’s there for me 24/7. I am lucky, I tell myself, without feeling convinced. My head hurts.

The squealing has calmed down for now. I would wear ear plugs, but I am afraid that if the apartment block is somehow set on fire, I won’t hear the alarm go off. I take a sniff of my calming night oil, breathe in deeply, slip my silk eye mask on, and sink back into my Egyptian cotton 1000 thread count sheets. Slowly, I begin to fade away, exhaustion pulling me into oblivion. And then the most ear-piercing wail penetrates my skull. It’s as if the pig has entered my apartment. I rip off the eye mask and throw myself off the bed onto the floor. It’s horrific! My heart is pounding, and my breath is ragged with fear. What if the loony next door has let an actual pig loose? Maybe it’s his pet, and it’s grown so big he can’t control it. I’ve seen stories about that in the news. People buy a cute little piglet, not realising that one day it will grow into a mammoth porker. I am sure the agent said no pets were allowed.The noise has calmed down again. This is torture. I open the bedroom door and peer into the hall, but in the dim light, I can see it is empty. There is no way I am going to go and knock on the neighbour’s door, not at this hour.

I go into the kitchen, take a carton of oat milk from the fridge, and make myself a hot chocolate. I am resigned to the fact that I won’t be going back to sleep tonight. I sit by the window, watching darkness gradually give way to an inky blue haze. I practise what I am going to say when I knock on the neighbour’s door. What time will I do it? I wander the apartment, my stomach churning and my eyes stingingly dry from lack of sleep. I could kill the freak for leaving me such a wreck. I will look like an old hag when I meet Antoine for his interview. Antoine’s picture shows hooded eyes and a slightly sarcastic curve to his mouth. This is how I interpret it anyway. I hope he isn’t a smart-arse; I certainly won’t be in the mood for arrogance today.

At 8 a.m., I pull on a sweater and a pair of jeans. I can shower and change when I return. I comb my hair back, kohl my eyes, and dab blood-red lipstick on my lips. I want to achieve a forceful, slightly scary look. This weirdo needs to know that I mean business. I search in a drawer for my personal alarm, and I will keep it in my hand. Who knows what I am about to encounter? Everywhere is completely silent now; it is light. The horrors of the night do not seem so real.
I open the front door; I will not lock it in case I need to re-enter in a hurry. I glance along the walkway; there is no one around should I need to call for help. My heart is jigging, but I have had more than enough of this hideous noise at night. Surely any reasonable person would be mortified to know the distress their nighttime games are causing others. I pause; maybe I should speak to their neighbour on the other side before I knock on the offender’s door and swap notes. But I haven’t got time to run around talking to other people.

Our apartments don’t have doorbells. I knock loudly. No answer, so I knock again, harder.

The door opens, leaving only a very small gap. I see a woman’s nose, that’s all, which surprises me; I expected a man. “Ooh, I know why you are here; I’m so sorry!”I am trying to ascertain from the narrow slither that I can see of her if she is some kind of banshee, a weird animal collector, or a torturous madam. The door opens wider, and a boy appears clutching a huge, round, fat pig toy that is nearly as big as him. He shoots me an evil grin.

“Blake, I think you better say sorry to this lady.”

Before the boy can even open his mouth, I reach forward, wrench the toy from his hands, and throw it over the walkway. It drops eight floors, and I glance over the safety rail to see it disintegrate as it hits the ground. As the boy lets out a wail, I turn sharply on my heel and walk away. The mother calls out behind me, but I rapidly re-enter my apartment, slam the door shut, and switch the bolt.

“Temper temper.”

I swivel to find a parrot perched on the coat stand.

More short stories from the Apartment Block Series

Pedro

Tsuneo

Gloria

Annaliese

Flynn

The Eight of Swords

The Putsi

The Isolation Sex Stories

If you enjoyed this story, any donation towards helping me achieve my publishing ambitions would be much appreciated. All monies received will go towards marketing my books.

Romantic ideas

Grumpy old writers – not me!

Competition seems to be a dirty word to some. Every now and then I come across a groaner on social media, woeful that there are too many other writers to compete with, and that’s why they are not selling enough of their books. Now the arrival of AI is raising even more groans.

It is almost impossible to accurately say how many authors there are worldwide, but, prompted by the grumbling, I looked for some statistics.

In 2021 there were around 49k authors in the US. Add to this self-published authors, this figure must be upshot of 2.5 million by now, if not more, given the figures below.

In its report, “Self-Publishing in the United States, 2013-2018: Print and E-books,” the total number of print and e-books that were self-published in 2018 was 1.68 million, up from 1.19 million in 2017. From Publishers Weekly

There are (at last count) 8 billion people in the world.

So, that’s just in the US which has a total population of 332.28 million. Which leads to the question… how many people read books in the USA? Well, 778.7 million books were sold in 2022.

In the UK there are 78,200k authors. 67.8 million people live in the UK. 212million books were sold in 2021, which is the highest figure of the last decade. (Source The Guardian).

So, taking the US and UK as examples, I would say that the hunger for books looks increasingly healthy. And that’s just books. Add to that magazines, chap books, and online publications, and the market increases even further.

The truth is, the hunger for the written word continues to increase. We are human, we want stories, and with 8 billion people in the world, there are endless stories to be written.

Writing for TV/Movies/Series is also a growth area.

Sure, there is competition, but there is competition in everything, whether you are selling shoes, jewellery, food or absolutely anything, but the market for books and writing in general is humongous!

One author (who shall remain anonymous) was bemoaning the fact that everyone seemed to be a writer these days. Isn’t it the human condition that we all want to communicate in some way? Writing is one of the main ways to do so, next to speech. He felt that his books weren’t selling because there were already too many authors out there. This isn’t an uncommon worry. The thing is, if you are on social media and you are a writer, it is likely that you are followed by other writers. The support groups on social media are terrific! This no doubt leads to the assumption that every Tom, Dick, and Harriet is an author these days, but when you stop and realise that, at the time of writing this, Twitter has over 397 million users, you can rest assured that authors and writers will make up a small proportion of this. And that’s just Twitter. I am sure the same applies to other social media platforms.

The same guy went on to complain that other people had far more followers than he did. I am guessing he hadn’t quite made the connection that, unless you market your books, they are unlikely to sell. Even with extensive marketing, it is a struggle for many. But the name of the game is to get your books seen by as many people as possible and to actively engage your readers. It isn’t easy, but then nothing ever is. It’s a simple equation to make: the more followers you attract, the more people are likely to read your books. It’s up to you, as the author, to capture their interest. Even more so when you are self-published.

Sure, it’s hard work, but as with any business, customers don’t simply fall out of the sky! You ask any publisher, and I know they will tell you this.

It may be a tough world out there, but selling books isn’t the only option if you want to sell your work as a writer. I am currently investigating more ways to publish work and will keep you updated on progress.

Please subscribe if you would like to be kept up-to-date with posts and short stories.

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Interesting further reading.

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The Eight of Swords

The Putsi

The Isolation Sex Stories

Gloria

From the Apartment Block series of short stories.

He smiles at me as we pass on the stairs. I note how smart he is in his pale blue jacket and dark denim jeans. I catch a waft of aftershave that is pleasant, not overpowering. I remember how young men used to plaster themselves in Brut or Old Spice back in the day; now the sky’s the limit. My guess is that he’s in his forties. We moved in over ten years ago, and I’ve only seen him in the past year or so. He’s a good-looking chap, still lean in middle age, and probably one of those fitness fanatics. Doesn’t appear to be married, always flying solo, or whatever they call it.

The post room is deserted. It’s rare to bump into another resident here. It’s strange when you think there are over 90 apartments in this block. There’s not much for me—a few leaflets and a small thank-you card from an ancient friend. I sent her some flowers because her cat died.

Out of curiosity, I scan names on parcels. Names and their meanings fascinate me. Mine is obvious, of course; Gloria means glory. If only my life had been glorious enough to match it. It’s fun to Google the names I’ve seen on parcels. It’s fascinating to see what I can find out about who lives here. If only I knew the name of the man on the stairs, I hope it’s unusual, romantic perhaps, a Cillian like that delicious Irish actor perhaps, or Jett or Phoenix. Please don’t let him be a Gordon or a Graham. Perhaps I can try to engage him in conversation next time, but he always seems to be in a hurry, so I will have to think of a way to capture his attention.

Oh, a car has driven into the underground car park, and the driver is speaking on handsfree; he hasn’t turned the sound down, so I can hear every word. I expect the whole apartment block can too. I poke my head out of the post room door to see if I can identify the car. It’s a shiny black 4×4. I move swiftly back into the post room, hoping the driver won’t spot me, keeping the door ajar so I can listen. He is very well spoken—not plummy, but succinct in his pronunciation.
“Yes, darling, yes, that’s right.” I’m still at work; I’m going to be late. Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s the second time this week, but this report has to be done for the court; there’s no getting out of it.”

I can hear his wife’s voice—annoyed but resigned.

He’s at work? There aren’t any offices in this apartment block. Maybe he’s a lawyer visiting a client.”No, nobody else can do it, and I’m sorry I’m going to have to miss dinner with the Harrisons, but you go ahead or try to rearrange it. Can you do me a big favour and water the garden? It’s been dry all week, and I’m worried about the lawn getting brown.”I hear his wife sigh in reluctant agreement.”I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Choose a nice restaurant, and I’ll take you there tomorrow. I should be home before ten; if not, don’t wait up; it’ll mean the case is more complicated than expected.”

I watch him get out of the 4×4, check his watch, and glance around. He’s carrying a briefcase, so I suppose he must be telling the truth about having to work. I follow him at a safe distance to see which apartment he is visiting. It’s apartment 38. He taps on the door, and a man I guess to be in his twenties emerges wearing nothing but a pair of very tight shorts. He pulls him forward by his tie, kissing him passionately on the mouth before they disappear inside.
Wow, what a betrayal! Back downstairs in my apartment, I hope no one saw me spying, but I just had to know if he was telling his wife the truth. I have an instinct for these things, and deep down I knew he was up to no good, and I was right. I take no satisfaction from being right, of course. How awful! All I can think about is that at this very moment, his poor wife is watering the garden, having to cancel her dinner plans, and blindly believing that her husband is working late. Or does she suspect he is up to no good? We women have an instinct for these things. Her tone suggested she didn’t quite believe him. I wonder if he pays for the apartment to keep his lover there. How long has this been going on? How did it all start? What if they have children? All these thoughts rush through my brain, and I’m sorry I ever spied on him. I will be thinking about this for days, if not weeks!

Perhaps I should leave a note on his windscreen. It might make him think about what he is doing if he finds out someone saw him up to no good. Whatever would I say? Something cryptic like I know what you are up to, or I am going to tell your wife. Not that I could; I have no idea where they live. How about Drop £xxxxx in the post room in a large envelope, and I won’t tell a soul what you are up to? Hmmm, blackmail is not a good idea; there is CCTV everywhere, and I would be caught immediately. I can’t key the word adulterer onto his bonnet for the same reason. How dare he be so deceitful? It’s shocking!

I pace the sitting room, trying to think of what to do. The phone rings; it’s Julia. “You’ll never guess what happened this afternoon.” I am breathless with excitement as I impart the juicy gossip to my friend.

“It always happens to you, Gloria, doesn’t it? Nothing ever happens around here. They should rename my road “Dull as Ditchwater.”

“When the door opened and I saw the young man, I thought, oh, maybe he has a secret son, or this is a client, but when I saw that the young man had nothing on but tight black shorts, I was shocked, and then to see him kiss him on the mouth so passionately… Well, Julia, I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head!”

“Are you going to tell Larry about it?”

I expect my husband will shrug and tell me not to be so nosey. He has no curiosity at all about other people. He’s away playing golf in Scotland. It’s been bliss without him here. I’ve been able to watch all my favourite TV programmes and listen to my Frank Sinatra CDs whenever I want. I tell her Larry wouldn’t be remotely interested.”I’ve got to go; the window cleaner is here. Keep me posted.”

I pour a cup of tea and go to sit outside on the balcony. I might be able to hear them talking above me if the young man’s balcony doors are open. Suddenly, a loud shriek has me jumping out of my skin, “Nosy old bat, you nosy old bat!”

I turn to stare into the beady eyes of an angry-looking parrot perched on the air dryer.

Pedro

Tsuneo

Annaliese

Flynn

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If you want to be a writer… write.

This is the mantra I repeat to myself if you want to be a writer… write. Also read.

This week I decided to publish some short stories I wrote around a year ago based on characters living in an apartment block. The first one, Pedro, is available to read now. The second, Tsuneo, has just been posted too. It’s a series I became distracted from sometime ago, but I thought it would be a good idea to publish the stories here to see if people would enjoy them enough for me to publish them as a book. So, please read them (they are very short reads) and feel free to criticise. Tell me what you like and, of course, what you don’t.

My aim is to write a thousand-word short story every day. It’s a really useful exercise; sometimes I am happy with the result, sometimes not so much, but the bottom line is that at least I am writing and exercising my brain in that direction.

Giving yourself a daily challenge, preferably a small, achievable one, works wonders. At the moment, I am also working on a book of my photography, so I have a daily photography challenge and a writing challenge. They are both achievable and make me feel like I am reaching towards my goals on a daily basis. I recommend it: whatever it is you need to achieve, set a daily task to enable you to achieve it.

Before I did this, I felt overwhelmed with all of my ideas. Now that I am putting them into practise, I know I will achieve my targets in both my writing and photography. It’s still frustrating that things don’t come together as fast as I’d like, but that’s me, always wanting all my ambitions to be fulfilled by yesterday!

Sometimes I make myself stop to look at what I have already achieved, and it never feels like enough, but I am learning to accept this and enjoy the things I learn on a daily basis. It is true that it’s not the destination that’s important, but the journey. It’s a bit of a cliche, I know. Completion is important. I end up spinning so many projects that sometimes they don’t get completed, but that’s OK. At least they are there to return to when the time comes.

Happily, I now have a copy of the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook 2023 in my possession, a useful tool in taking my short stories to publications. It’s an investment I know will pay off. If you are a writer or artist, I totally recommend getting yourself this book.

I bought four books this week (including the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook), three of which will help me with my writing and publishing endeavours, and I have a feeling the fourth one will too. Three of the books came from a secondhand bookshop: The Penguin Dictionary of English Grammar (it never hurts to continue to brush up), The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, and The Book of Margery Kempe. The usefulness of the first two of these books is self-explanatory. The third came about via pure serendipity. Grabbing a quick coffee a few weeks ago with the Norfolk tour guide Paul Dickson, he told me the story of Margery Kempe, a mediaeval Norfolk marvel who, at the age of 40, having had 14 children, embarked on a life of pilgrimage in England, Europe, and the Holy Land. It is a truly remarkable story. It so happened I was passing a secondhand bookshop in St. Giles on Wednesday and spotted the Book of Margery Kemp in the window. Pure kismet!

If you are a writer or have ambitions to write, stick with me. I am writing this blog to help other writers too, simply by sharing the knowledge I pick up along the way. Hit the subscribe button below to be kept up-to-date on a weekly basis with my progress. Feel free to share your writing/publishing tips too.

It’s time to go and write another story. See you again next week. Don’t forget to check out Tsuneo.

Petra

Romantic ideas

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Work in progress

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Novel ideas

Writer with attitude…

Novel ideas

Mysterious ideas

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Wise ideas

Floating ideas

Elemental ideas

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Thinking time

Ripples of time

Fascinating characters

Island Fantasy

Mysterious places

Beach huts

Tsuneo

Ever since my father heard the song ‘A Boy Named Sue,” he greets me with “Hello, is this my boy named Tsu?” He never gets tired of the joke. At first, I got annoyed with him about it, but now I barely notice him saying it. In Japanese, the T is silent when it comes before the S. My name is therefore pronounced Suneo.

I have not seen my father face-to-face for over a year. I came to England to study English and to teach Japanese. My father bought me the apartment. The arrival of the pandemic meant he could not visit. The pandemic did me a favour. I love my father, but he is overbearing and tries to control me. My mother died just after my ninth birthday. My relatives say he spoils me; this is true. He does give me everything I ask for, but he has his own demands. He expects to speak to me three times a day. He wants to know what I ate for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. He asks what I have bought. Things he approves of me buying are technology, fitness equipment, and Japanese food. He hates it if I buy books that aren’t factual; he thinks fiction is a waste of time. This is too bad; I love science fiction and fantasy. If I say I’ve eaten pasta or sausage and mash (two of my favourites), he tells me I will get fat, which is ridiculous. I tell him everything because I don’t see why I shouldn’t. He needs to know I am my own person; I don’t have to please him all the time.

“Who did you meet today?” This is one of his favourite questions. He goes to a coffee shop every morning, where he drinks a bowl of mushroom soup for breakfast. He would love it if I did that too. He meets with his friends there, Iwao and Rokuro; they are both a few years younger than him, which is a good thing, I think. I have developed a liking for Coco Pops, marmalade on toast, and pain au chocolat. There is so much to choose from. As a child, my breakfast consisted of steamed rice and fish every day. It was ok, but once you are let loose in the world, I personally believe it is important to have as many experiences as possible. At weekends, I go to a greasy spoon café, where I eat a different kind of cooked breakfast every time. Last Saturday I ate sausages, eggs, baked beans, and hash browns; on Sunday I had a bacon roll with grease dripping down the sides and lots of ketchup. I love ketchup.

“I went to the library; I met a lady who likes the same kind of books I do.”

“So, there is more than one of you who likes to read nonsense?” He teases me. “What does she do? Does she come from a good family? Did she look strong and fit?”
“Chichi, we talked about Isaac Asimov and Terry Pratchett. I didn’t ask her such personal questions!” He would love it if I found a girlfriend. I’ve never had anyone special, and it worries him. The truth is, I’m not that interested. A girl would not enhance my life right now; I don’t want to have to worry about someone else. The truth is, I am afraid she would nag me like my father does.
“You will need someone to look after you one day, you’ll see.”

My father dated a few ladies while I was growing up. I didn’t like any of them. Haia, like her name suggests, did everything quickly and expected me to keep up. Her impatience made me nervous. Chuya had a thing about pinching my cheeks and hugging me. I know she meant to be kind, but it made me feel like a baby. Emica went through old photos of my mother and started styling her hair in the same way and wearing similar types of clothing and shoes. Her own original style included drab grey colours and training shoes, but while she dated my father, she started to wear bright colours, grew her hair to shoulder length, and curled it up at the ends. Chichi told her it was creeping him out, and she took offence and cut off the relationship. He did have a habit of picking odd kinds of women. Well, in my opinion, but what does the opinion of a young boy count? He never asked me what I thought; I just had to put up with whoever came through the door.

In my teens, I escaped to my friends’ houses, and sometimes I wouldn’t go home for days. Their home lives seemed much more normal to me. Poor Chichi. I understand him a little better now that I am a man myself, but I think his dating experiences have put me off the idea of having a girlfriend.

“I did see a lady peeping out of the post room door when I went to put the rubbish out.” There are big communal bins in the car park in the basement of the apartment block. “There was a man in his car who had the speaker phone on. I think she was trying to listen to his conversation.”

“Oh, did you listen to it too?”
“No, I’m not interested in listening to other people’s conversations.”
“You never have any interesting gossip to tell me!”
“You have Iwao and Rokuro to give you gossip, I am too busy with my studies to worry about what other people are up to.”
“Their gossip is always the same; I am tired of it. Nothing ever happens here. I want to get a flight and come and see you.”
“OK, Chichi, let me know when. I have to go; I have some emails to answer.”

I terminate the call. He would chat with me all day if he could. The truth is, I did watch the lady from the post room follow the man who’d been sitting in the car talking. She peered around a corner, watching him go to apartment no. I wondered if she might be his wife at first, but when he went inside, she scurried off towards the stairs. If I’d told my father this, he’d go on and on about it, so it’s better not to. It did make me wonder about them both, but the truth is, all sorts of things go on around this apartment block. I did wonder about writing a book about some of the things I see, but I am so busy with my studies and learning about this fascinating city that I don’t want to commit to it. Perhaps a diary would be easier to keep up with. I’ll think about it.

For now, I need to call a man who contacted me online. He wants me to teach him some basic Japanese phrases as he is going to Tokyo on holiday in a few weeks. My father will be pleased that I am going to earn some money; he has been telling me for a while that it’s time I found more clients. I taught a few people via Zoom during the pandemic, but they lost interest because they couldn’t see how they’d ever get to Japan to try out what they were learning. Happily, things are beginning to change for the better, so with a bit of luck, they will come back to me.

I open the blinds, and to my astonishment, there is a parrot sitting on the balcony, staring back at me. Slowly I slide open the doors, and suddenly he shrieks, “Roll your eyes, dumbo; you might spot a brain in that thick skull of yours, if you are lucky.”

More stories from the Apartment Block series below.

Pedro

Gloria

Annaliese

Flynn

Please subscribe to see more stories from Petra Kidd.

Romantic ideas

Creative thoughts

Work in progress

Indie Author

Novel ideas

Writer with attitude…

Novel ideas

Mysterious ideas

Creative thoughts

Inspiration

Magical ideas

Wise ideas

Floating ideas

Elemental ideas

Buoyant ideas

Thinking time

Ripples of time

Fascinating characters

Island Fantasy

Mysterious places

Beach huts

Norwich Castle

Norwich Quayside

Norwich Market

Blakeney boats

Elm Hill

Norwich Castle

Norwich Cathedral

Thurne Mill

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The Eight of Swords

The Putsi

The Isolation Sex Stories

Apartment Short Stories

Just over a year ago, I began a series of short stories centered around an apartment block. I live in an apartment block and was inspired by the thought of the characters who might live around me, (not that I’ve met many of them).

It is still a work in progress, and I know that I will probably need to rewrite many of the stories to recreate my first train of thought, which was to link them through certain events. At the moment I am working on other short stories, but I thought it would be fun (and useful) to post a few of the apartment shorts here to see what readers think.

Pedro

Pedro

Tsuneo

Tsuneo

Gloria

Gloria

Annaliese

Please subscribe to get updates as new stories arrive.

The Eight of Swords

The Putsi

The Isolation Sex Stories

Pedro

Apartment 1 – Pedro

Living with Pedro isn’t by choice.

“You look like something I drew with my left hand.” He is sitting on the back of the couch, staring at me, his beady eyes shining with self-imagined comedic brilliance. The fact that he doesn’t have a left or even a right hand escapes him.

“That shirt must suit someone, but it doesn’t suit you.”

I ignore him, not that it makes any difference. There are occasions when I would happily punch him off his perch, but I remind myself that he’s nothing but a brainwashed bird. Perhaps he’s not that happy about living with me either, but for now, neither of us have a choice.

My marriage broke up two years ago. My wife left with Pedro. We were happy for around five years, but I got promoted and ended up having to work away a lot. Dana bought Pedro, an African Grey Parrot, for company. She named him after a hook-nosed Spaniard she met on holiday as a teenager. Her first love—apparently, as usual, there was no consideration for how I might have felt about that.

As her resentment of my solo trips grew, she took solace in teaching Pedro to insult me. At first, I found it funny, but the insults became steadily more vicious.

“Your parents must have been cacti because you are nothing but a prick.”
Pedro cocks his head to one side as if waiting for a reaction. His insults carry the northern Irish lilt my wife had, which is even more disturbing now that Dana is dead.

Three months after she left, Dana called to ask if I could look after Pedro for a few weeks. “I’m in desperate need of a holiday; it’s been hell at work, and Mandy asked me to go away with her. I can’t find a pet sitter for Pedro; would you mind having him?”

I thought that maybe I could teach him some new material and turn things around a bit. The thought amused me, so I agreed. Besides, it would leave Dana owing me, and although I couldn’t think of anything I could demand in return other than a particular bookcase she’d taken without asking me if I wanted it, I agreed.

Dana never came home. A tsumani hit the island she was staying on; she was swept out to sea, and six months passed before the remains of her shark-bitten body washed up on a distant shore. Mandy, who’d been lucky enough to escape, showed up at the apartment with some of Dana’s belongings. I don’t know who was more in shock, her or me. We sat drinking tea while I tried to think of positive things to say about my ex-wife, but having had to listen to Pedro telling me what a low-life I was for months on end, kind words didn’t come easy. My feeble attempts at retraining him had failed miserably.

“So, would you like to look after Pedro?” I asked, trying not to sound too pleading.
Mandy and Dana had been close friends since their teens, and I hoped she would agree. A long shot, as I knew she had cats.

“Pedro is used to you; he’ll be much better off staying here.”

Mandy looked uncomfortable; she obviously knew the foul things Pedro squawked out on his deceased owner’s behalf. I expect she and Dana had many a good laugh together at my expense. After making a few tongue-in-cheek suggestions on how to retrain him, she made her excuses and left.

I placed an advertisement on the vet’s noticeboard in the hope that Pedro can be re-homed. Whatever I do, I can’t seem to train him to quit the insults, and I really want to start dating properly. There’s no way I can bring a woman back to the apartment with Pedro running me down at every opportunity. Also, not everyone likes animals. Then again, I might end up with someone who pays Pedro more attention than me, and I don’t want that either. Let’s face it, I’ve been through all that before.

Even if Pedro could stop the insults, I really don’t want to be tied to a parrot for the rest of my life. Pedro is only five years old, and he could live until he’s 50 or even 90 years old if I keep spoiling him with tasty morsels. He’s fiercely healthy anyway. Despite the insults, I do feel sorry for him. Parrots are naturally friendly, but because of the repetitive put-downs, it’s hard to feel any affection for him at all. I shut him away from me most of the time; he can’t be happy to be alone. If I bought another parrot or animal to keep him company, then I would be even more tied. After so many years being unhappy with Dana, I think I deserve some happiness and freedom.

I’m off out now to meet a new lady for dinner, and Pedro is pacing up and down, shrieking that my teeth would make good jail bars; they are so gappy. I do have a gap between my two upper front incisors, and I avoid smiling because of them. Dana used to say that I should get the dentist to fix them, but I never got round to it. Maybe I should think about doing it now. I’m sure not all women are as shallow as Dana; she obsessed over her looks and loved to criticize mine. It’s almost as if her spirit has taken over. He’s glaring at me just as she used to when I had to go to work in the evening. I will admit, I have always been a bit of a workaholic, but the money I slaved to earn, paid for her cosmetic surgery and penchant for designer clothing.

Mandy brought me back Dana’s jewellery. Amazingly enough, despite floating all those miles and being nibbled by sharks, her gold bracelet and a couple of expensive rings remained on her. I didn’t want them, but Mandy insisted I have them. I’ll parcel them up and send them to my niece when I track her down; she’s another one who likes to disappear off to distant lands. Last I heard, she’d landed in Venezuela. Maybe she can sell the jewellery to help fund her travels. To be honest, I don’t care what she does with it. I have no emotions left when it comes to Dana or her belongings.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I smell nice. My confidence waned with Dana and Pedro always putting me down, so I looked up some tips online on how to be attractive to women. Apparently, smelling good is a big plus. The helpful lady on the perfume counter at my favourite department store recommended this one, and she upsold me body wash to go with it. My wallet is significantly lighter as a result, but now that I won’t have to pay for Dana’s plastic surgeries as she grows older, I’m pretty well off.

“If laughter is the best medicine, you could cure any sick person with your face.”

“I love you too, Pedro.”

I grab my jacket, quickly check the sky through the kitchen window to see if I need to take my umbrella, then lock up the apartment and look forward to a few hours in the company of someone who hopefully won’t insult me.

Short stories from the Apartment Block Series

Tsuneo

Gloria

Annaliese

Flynn

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How not to be distracted when writing…

I know that people get distracted by TV, household chores, phones, social media or anything that life throws at them when they are trying to work in their living space. While I get distracted from time to time, more recently I have found a way to combat this. Firstly, one really important thing I got rid of three years ago was my TV. I decided that when I moved into my apartment, it would be a good thing to lose, and I am glad to report that it was one of the best things I have ever done. Seriously, I have never looked back, not even once, and thought, “Oh, I wish I had a TV to watch”. 

I knew not having a TV would make me more productive because the urge to switch on and see what is happening in the news has gone. I decided that watching the news didn’t do me any favours anyway, other than to make me mostly sad, angry or frustrated. I do keep a check on world affairs via the Internet, but saying cheerio to the TV has made me a much happier and more productive person all round. Instead of watching TV during the pandemic lockdowns of 2020, I wrote a book (The Isolation Sex Stories), how productive is that?

The other thing I did was learn to meditate to clear my mind. I don’t do this every day because I don’t need to, but when I do feel distracted or my brain is full to overload, it’s the perfect way to clear my head and gain some positive energy. There are lots of videos out there to try; see what works for you. Headphones are the best way to do this. You don’t need to clear your mind completely. I often get ideas while meditating, which is a bonus.

While I used to need complete silence to write, now I use an immersive writing YouTube video to listen to. The one I use, by Abbie Emmons, is perfect, as I really enjoy the music and it helps me focus. I write for 30 minutes at a time for two hours, stopping every half hour (at the sound of a bell) to take a 5-minute break. This stops me from getting eye, neck, and wrist strain from continuous writing and gives the brain a break too. Give it a try. There are lots of writing moods to try, i.e. romance, mystery, fantasy etc. (There are probably other immersive writing videos, but I haven’t tried them, let me know if you find a good one that works for you).

Also, please remember that it isn’t the end of the world if you get distracted occasionally; we are only humans, and it is going to happen. Instead, work out if there are things that distract you a little too regularly and work out a way to put them on hold (if it’s possible). Probably phones and social media are the most distracting…

I often used to have to break off mid-flow because of life situations that could not be ignored. Now, it’s easier for me to work for much longer periods. We all have our distractions; it’s how we handle them that matters. We don’t necessarily have to write for many hours a day. Sometimes the best work can be achieved in shorter bursts of time. Our minds can only remain fresh for so long. Distractions can be a good thing in that we come back to writing or whatever work we have to do in a fresher state of mind.

This week I have been investigating Substack, which looks like an interesting and useful platform for writers. I’m gradually filling out my profile there, and I look forward to posting. Please jump in and subscribe to my blog there (it’s free) for my publishing tips. Hopefully, I can give you some ideas and shortcuts. I will aim to make it more detailed than the information I give here.

Believe me, I am always studying how to become more productive, and I will pass on whatever I find works!

Look out for my blog next Friday to see what’s new, and what might help you, whether you are a writer, or whatever you do.

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The Isolation Sex Stories

The Eight of Swords

The Putsi

Romantic ideas

Creative thoughts

Work in progress

Indie Author

Novel ideas

Writer with attitude…

Novel ideas

Mysterious ideas

Creative thoughts

Inspiration

Magical ideas

Wise ideas

Floating ideas

Elemental ideas

Buoyant ideas

Thinking time

Ripples of time

Fascinating characters

Island Fantasy

Mysterious places

Fantasy Forest WritersNotebook