REFLECTIONS by Ray Foster

This was the first time that I opened a package and held a book that had my name on it.

'Reflections' is what it says - reflecting on how life is and how it used to be. Interspersed, with those stories are others that are straight, pure fiction like the one about a killer stalking the streets preying on those who have a weakness or a hitman with an ulterior motive.

The short story - well, that begins in the fifties. Thirty kids sitting in a classroom all doing composition during English lessons; honing a skill with a forty minute deadline. (Homework - what homework? We left education in the school where it belonged and went home to play.) That is how we grew.

Third year - that was when I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes. Once a week the English master would read from Arthur Conan-Doyle's 'The Memoirs Of Sherlock Holmes'. Influenced? Very. What it did was to make me realise that there was a lot to the short story. It brought home to me that this was what composition/essays were.

Inspiration came in all shapes and forms - in my case, books and movies - and,in one instance, cost me a pass in the 11 plus because my fueled up imagination took me on a journey that was the wrong one. One that I would repeat when asked to write about, on the same subject, just after I joined the Felixstowe Scribblers. That is one story in 'Reflections' so I won't spoil the fun here.

Sadly, none of the short stories that I wrote back then seem to have survived.

Most of those in 'Reflections' date from about 2000 and something on - some written during the period I spent in Felixstowe while others reflect times past in North Finchley and Orpington. I have added a couple of pieces of flash fiction that I did in conjunction with Pattinase's blog.

In some respects I have needed to go back to where I started. I think I realised that when I wrote the Jack Giles short story 'A Time To Live' that appeared in 'Where Legends Ride'. Much easier than writing the full length novel 'Lawmen'.

Music, too, both inspires me and plays like a soundtrack. Listening to Duane Eddy reminded me of a concert that I went to - it was a memorable day in more ways than one. Well, that's another story.

I was once asked why I wrote.

My answer is simple: Because I can.

And because there will always be 'Reflections' to think about.

THE QUARANTINE ZONE by Ray Foster

Included in the new Indie Collection anthology Spectacular Tales 111 is a short story titled 'The Quarantine Zone'.

This is a story that has evolved over time - in fact sometime around 2000 to 2005.

Back then I wrote a story called 'The End' where boy meets girl after an unnamed apocalyptic event. Girl loses boy who rides off into the sunset after telling her that he wasn't about to play Adam to her Eve.

As a simple one thousand word piece it did a job of a kind. About three or four years ago I did an edit while I was with the writers group in Felixstowe. This did expand on the original idea but read out loud there was still something lacking.

I was about to delete it from the computer when I was asked if I had anything that could be used in a sci-fi anthology. I should have said 'no' because I didn't think that the story was really fit for purpose but the theme rather saved it.

The boy became a 55 year old man and the girl changed to a 21 year old rebel. They meet up in the same location in the aftermath of a devastating plague in an opening that has a 'western' flavour to it.

As 'Red Moon Rising' it was published in Spectacular Tales 11.

The Quarantine Zone is set in London and introduces three new characters and throws a different light on the plague. This time there is a Polish nurse, a girl shy security guard and a streetwise teenage boy - just three of the survivors trapped inside the fenced off grounds of a hospital.

That story is not 'the end' though for within a couple of days of completing that story I started on a third that would bring another character to life.

Even as I write this a plan is afoot to add some more stories. A bunch of short stories that will all link up to create a whole. An idea very much inspired by Hunter Davies 'I Knew Daisy Smuten'. This was a collection of short stories by various writers with Hunter Davies providing the finale. Add to the mix Howard Hopkins 'The Dark Riders' a western where the hero has to work out how to kill a gang of outlaws who refuse to die.

I have learned that sometimes stories don't work even though the plot idea sounds good. Near enough a decade on and it has taken on a life of it's own. Simple message there is never give up - when the story is ready it will come.

THE PATIENCE OF THE IMPATIENT PATIENT by Ray Foster

THE PATIENCE OF THE IMPATIENT PATIENT

 

   In big red digital letters the screen reads: ‘Patients who are ten minutes late for their appointment may not be seen.’

   So, if I’m late the doctor has the right to refuse to see me – what reciprocal right do I have? I mean if he’s ten minutes late for the appointment can I fine him? Go home and demand another appointment?

   No, it’s all self-defeating.

   All the rights go one way. Argue and you can be arrested, kicked out and find yourself doctorless. And why? Because there is another sign that says that staff and doctor’s have the right not to suffer abuse at the hands of aggrieved patients.

   Well, my appointment was for 4pm and I arrived 5 minutes ago – now it is ten past 4.

    Should have brought a book.

    Still, there is plenty to read – like the reassuring posters on the wall. ‘Free hearing test if you are over fifty five’: ‘That Pain Could Have A Name’: ‘Blood in your poo – talk to a doctor before it is too late’ and the adverts for things like MacMillan Trust and Specsavers.

    Then there are the magazines. Bella, Best, My Weekly, and Take A Break – I’d be in my element if I was a woman. But who reads things like ‘My Mother Sold Me For A Packet Of Fags’ or ‘I thought my father was really my husband’ – a mistake easily made I suppose though I have no desire to find out which he was.

    Buried amongst all this is a ‘National Graphic’ magazine. Great article on Angel Fish with lots of pretty pictures. If I wanted to look at Angel Fish then I’d buy an aquarium.

    Quarter past 4.

     The TV screen invites me to see a nurse for a check for Chlamydia; followed by a spooky silent film about depression. And then there is the message that there has been a road accident on the A146. All of these things put together reminds me of a song – yes, ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful’. Ian Dury and The Blockheads.

     I start humming ‘Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick’ to angry glares.

     If I was a kid I could go rooting around in the toy box at the back of the waiting room.

     The screen lights up: Mr John Smith to Room J – Nurse Annie.

     Lucky Mr Smith.

     Reminds me of a book .What was her name? Rosie Dixon, Night Nurse that was it – Rosie Dixon the female version of Timothy Lea who’s Confessions Of A Window Cleaner was widely read by many a young schoolboy – and watched by men in long raincoats in the cinema.

   A thought that provokes a laugh – but I don’t share the joke with the grim faced audience that is either engrossed in magazines or watching one of the screens.

4:20 and my doctor is ready to see Linda Green.

I am tempted to demand that the doctor makes a new appointment with me – one that he can keep.

    Someone does go to the desk to complain.

    The doctor is running behind – an attack of diahorea, maybe? No further explanation is forthcoming. The receptionist glares at the elderly patient daring her to kick off. She backs down and shuffles back to take her seat. The receptionist returns to her crossword puzzle.

    4:25 and Linda Green is out. That was a quick in and out – just like that – and she has a big smile on her face. One satisfied patient, then.

    Then nothing.

    5 minutes pass....time enough for another reminder that patients shouldn’t use the doctor’s parking spaces. A misplaced apostrophe has me questioning just how many parking spaces the doctor needs.

    The thought crosses my mind that maybe the doctor’s having a quick fag outside in one of his parking spaces. Might need a bit of down time after the last patient.

Okay – thinking process getting a little out of hand.

There goes that Chlamydia advert again....bad timing.

4:31 and Elsie Jones is invited into the doctor’s office.

I watch her shuffle slowly, her metal walking stick chinking away. It has taken her two minutes to get from her seat at the back to disappear through the door leading to the various surgeries.

The waiting room is empty.

I am the last patient.

After 50 minutes waiting for the 4pm appointment, I walk into the doctor’s surgery.

“Hi, Mr Balcombe,” the doctor beams at me. “How are you today?”

Inanely, I reply: “Fine.”

What a stupid thing to say. If I was fine then what was I doing there.

“So what’s the problem?” he wonders out loud as he studies my notes on a computer screen.

I avoid the temptation to tell him that I think that I have Chlamydia. Just able to check myself as I realise that for 50 minutes I have been brainwashed into a state of hypochondria.

“I’m here about the results of the tests,” I prompt instead. “I did phone but was told to make an appointment.”

He peers closer at the screen; fiddles with the mouse and highlights something. He frowns; glances seriously at me.

I prepare for the worst....but then he smiles.

“All clear,” he grins. “You’re fit as a fiddle.”

And I waited 50 minutes for something that he could have told me over the phone.

50 minutes of my life wasted.

Next time I’m coming armed with a book and an iPod – and you can bet that before I’ve plugged in the ear phones and started on page one the sign will light up with ‘The doctor will see you now’.

First broadcast on Felixstowe Radio 19th March 2014

Copyright Ray Foster 2013