This is a short story I first wrote when I was first properly setting out on the word trail and, sadly it shows. I uploaded then, because my tutor at the time said I should, to Kindle and now really want to take it down, as I am now editing it with more experience and knowledge in the art of writing. Well, hopefully with more knowledge.
Be Warned: there are few blue words.
Hope you like…
The Treacle Rush By C.p.Singleton ©2012
It was the summer of nineteen-ninety and Thatcher was still Prime Minister. Simon Bates was still depressing the morning Radio One listeners with ‘Our Tune’. No ending was in sight for the IRA bombing campaigns: with the deaths of three Policemen; one Nun; and Ian Gow, Chairman of the Conservative back-bench on Northern Ireland. Rushdie was still skulking around with a Fatwa hanging over his head -Paint your own picture there- and it was safe to visit the Hospital.
In a summer of successions Mr Carey took over from Mr Runcey as Archbishop of Canterbury, Graham Taylor was appointed as the new England football manager and Leeds United returned to the top flight.
All this news, however, blissfully, passed by the eyes and ears of Britain’s new youth culture. They didn’t want to hear about the death of more channel-tunnel builders, or the reports, by The Joseph Roundtree Foundation, that stated, due to low birth rates, the need for an immigrant workforce by 2006 was extremely likely. They didn’t want to know such trivia. They only wanted to know where the next rave was, if the police knew about it and where the hell was Gimpy with the drugs!
The tense excitement before Gimpy appeared, with his pockets crammed with Bart Simpsons, Dennis the Menaces and low grade Pink Champagne, was stretching them all. Nine primed and ready teenagers sat, expectantly, around Nige’s shabby living room, begging to be smashed out of their tiny, excitable minds.
All were dressed in their SPX trainers, baggy jeans and long baggy T-shirts, they knew which club they were going to and how they were getting there; they just needed the goodies.
‘He better get here, man,’ moaned Colin, or Colon as he was less-affectionately known, over the sound of the stuttering, metallic voice of Max Headroom jabbering away on the bulky television in the corner, as he paced the threadbare carpet.
‘He’ll be here, Colon, don’t worry,’ Si re-assured him, his arm firmly glued to the shoulder of his girlfriend, Lisa. ‘Anyway, what’s wi’ all this “man” business? Yer not from fuckin’ Manchester, yer cock!’
‘Din’t say I was.’ Colon sulked, before slumping into a vacant armchair.
The three-piece sofa was tightly packed with Si, Lisa, her friend Claire and lastly, a young man called Besty. Two other mismatched chairs were already occupied by Alex and Tigger. Gazza lay strewn across the hearth-rug.
Colon looked around the room like it too had done him wrong and then began to pull belligerently at the chair’s exposed stuffing that grew out in clumps like an elderly man’s ear-hair.
All eyes immediately turned as the battered living-room door crashed open.