Andersons
Andersons were mini stories of exactly 100 words and briefly were very popular during the 1990s. They were introduced as training aids for budding writers. The genre is also known as ‘mini sagas’, ‘minute fiction’ and ‘super shorts’ etc. They pack a punch and tell a story in the blink of an eye. They didn’t make it into the 21st Century but some of us wish they were still around.
Gone!
Chrissy didn’t come home after work. She didn’t come home ever again. Phil went crazy trying to find her but she just vanished, leaving everything behind except the clothes she was wearing. She left no note, answer-phone message or text. He placed adverts in the papers and on the internet. He trudged around town, bars and clubs looking for her. There was not a trace of her. It was as if she’d been abducted by white slaver traders. Then, she was seen working in a bar in Tenerife. Phil flew out there but when he arrived - she’d gone, again.
Hands across the sea
Dolly came home one weekend with one of them Yankee soldiers. He was a big lad called Ricky from Illinois (pronounced Illy-noy). She was all giggles, lipstick, Lucky Strikes and nylons.
“You watch what yer doing, girl,” said Gran.
In June, Rickie’s battalion disappeared like a fog in a sudden wind. Dolly cried for days, and cried some more when the Lucky Strikes ran out.
In September, an official letter came stating he’d died of wounds somewhere in Europe. When the baby, Ricky junior, was born, Grandad said, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!”
Breakfast
I went into the greasy spoon café this morning. “I’ll have a Full English Breakfast. Can you burn the fried egg on the outside and leave the middle runny, cook the sausages ‘til they’re black, leave the bacon pink, burn the tomatoes and serve the beans cold. I’ll have a cup o’ tea with sour milk, in a chipped mug and leave the tea bag in. Oh and can I have a knife and fork with some dried egg on ‘em?”
And the cook said, “I ain’t got time to muck about like that!”
I said, “Well, you did yesterday!”
Day trip
Sometime during the fifties, the whole family went by train on a day trip to Bournemouth. Lovely summer’s day spent on the beach, fish n chips, bottles of Tizer, frollicking in the sea.
We made our way back to the station and found seats in two of the carriages and stowed our stuff on the racks. Later, Dad suddenly shouted, “Fareham, we’re at Fareham. Let’s go!”
Buckets, spades, picnic stuff, towels, tossed hurriedly onto the platform. The train pulled away and someone said, “Where’s Gran?”
They woke her at Brighton and sent her back on the next train.
The stowaway
The skipper was taking a turn around the ship after they’d cast off when he saw a movement in one of the lifeboats. He pulled back the tarpaulin to find a stunning young blonde girl lying there.
“What do you think you’re doing, Miss?” he asked.
“I’m stowing away to America. I’m going to be a film star!” she said.
“Is anyone helping you?”
“Ted, the steward!” she said.”
“Are you paying him?” the skipper asked.
She winked, “I’m letting him take advantage of me!”
Skipper says, “You certainly are Miss, this is the Isle of Wight Ferry!”
Chisolm trail
Hank rode over. “Hey, kid, get down to the creek and round up those maverick strays. Cut ‘em back in and keep an eye open for injuns!”
“Sure thing, Hank.” I said.
We’d been ten weeks in the saddle, driving three thousand head of longhorns to the Abilene railhead. They took me on as a pink faced rookie but I soon proved myself a tough cowboy, I had a black Stetson and real cowboy boots.
Suddenly, an old woman emerged from the darkness and bumped into my bike, “Ger-out-the-way, you paper lads are in dreamland half the time!”
With disgrace
It was still dark. The company stood to attention along three sides of the square. The few lanterns placed in front of them cast eerie shadows. Suddenly, another group appeared from the guardroom and marched into the square. The C/O simply ordered, “Proceed.”
The Sergeant Major stepped forward and read, “Private Hawkins, you have been found guilty of theft and are to be dismissed from the regiment.”
As he spoke, he approached Hawkins, withdrew his bayonet, slashed his epaulettes off and threw them away. A drummer-boy beat a slow tap-tap-tap.
“Take him to the gate!” the Sergeant Major snarled.
Downing Street
They sent an official car for me. Two motorcycle cops met us on the M40 and whisked us through the rush hour traffic to Downing Street. The Prime Minister, Foreign Secretary and Chancellor were waiting in the Cabinet Office, anxious and nervous. The PM introduced me and said, “We know you have a sound grasp of national and international affairs and we’d appreciate your advice on what HMG should do about the current political and financial problems.”
Well, I’d sorted the Euro, Russia and just started on the Middle East when the darned bin-men woke me up!
Miss Woodley
She was the only teacher in the one-roomed, Victorian schoolhouse for over forty years. She was small, patient and dedicated and kept all her pupils in check, even the Mulligan boys. She taught hundreds of village children the three Rs and much more. Some said her fiancée had perished on the Somme.
She cycled the four miles to school, summer and winter. To the entire village, she was Miss Woodley, respected and quietly admired.
When she retired, white-haired and fragile, she was replaced by a headmistress, two teachers a fulltime caretaker and a curriculum, sent down from London.
Andersons were mini stories of exactly 100 words and briefly were very popular during the 1990s. They were introduced as training aids for budding writers. The genre is also known as ‘mini sagas’, ‘minute fiction’ and ‘super shorts’ etc. They pack a punch and tell a story in the blink of an eye. They didn’t make it into the 21st Century but some of us wish they were still around.
Gone!
Chrissy didn’t come home after work. She didn’t come home ever again. Phil went crazy trying to find her but she just vanished, leaving everything behind except the clothes she was wearing. She left no note, answer-phone message or text. He placed adverts in the papers and on the internet. He trudged around town, bars and clubs looking for her. There was not a trace of her. It was as if she’d been abducted by white slaver traders. Then, she was seen working in a bar in Tenerife. Phil flew out there but when he arrived - she’d gone, again.
Hands across the sea
Dolly came home one weekend with one of them Yankee soldiers. He was a big lad called Ricky from Illinois (pronounced Illy-noy). She was all giggles, lipstick, Lucky Strikes and nylons.
“You watch what yer doing, girl,” said Gran.
In June, Rickie’s battalion disappeared like a fog in a sudden wind. Dolly cried for days, and cried some more when the Lucky Strikes ran out.
In September, an official letter came stating he’d died of wounds somewhere in Europe. When the baby, Ricky junior, was born, Grandad said, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!”
Breakfast
I went into the greasy spoon café this morning. “I’ll have a Full English Breakfast. Can you burn the fried egg on the outside and leave the middle runny, cook the sausages ‘til they’re black, leave the bacon pink, burn the tomatoes and serve the beans cold. I’ll have a cup o’ tea with sour milk, in a chipped mug and leave the tea bag in. Oh and can I have a knife and fork with some dried egg on ‘em?”
And the cook said, “I ain’t got time to muck about like that!”
I said, “Well, you did yesterday!”
Day trip
Sometime during the fifties, the whole family went by train on a day trip to Bournemouth. Lovely summer’s day spent on the beach, fish n chips, bottles of Tizer, frollicking in the sea.
We made our way back to the station and found seats in two of the carriages and stowed our stuff on the racks. Later, Dad suddenly shouted, “Fareham, we’re at Fareham. Let’s go!”
Buckets, spades, picnic stuff, towels, tossed hurriedly onto the platform. The train pulled away and someone said, “Where’s Gran?”
They woke her at Brighton and sent her back on the next train.
The stowaway
The skipper was taking a turn around the ship after they’d cast off when he saw a movement in one of the lifeboats. He pulled back the tarpaulin to find a stunning young blonde girl lying there.
“What do you think you’re doing, Miss?” he asked.
“I’m stowing away to America. I’m going to be a film star!” she said.
“Is anyone helping you?”
“Ted, the steward!” she said.”
“Are you paying him?” the skipper asked.
She winked, “I’m letting him take advantage of me!”
Skipper says, “You certainly are Miss, this is the Isle of Wight Ferry!”
Chisolm trail
Hank rode over. “Hey, kid, get down to the creek and round up those maverick strays. Cut ‘em back in and keep an eye open for injuns!”
“Sure thing, Hank.” I said.
We’d been ten weeks in the saddle, driving three thousand head of longhorns to the Abilene railhead. They took me on as a pink faced rookie but I soon proved myself a tough cowboy, I had a black Stetson and real cowboy boots.
Suddenly, an old woman emerged from the darkness and bumped into my bike, “Ger-out-the-way, you paper lads are in dreamland half the time!”
With disgrace
It was still dark. The company stood to attention along three sides of the square. The few lanterns placed in front of them cast eerie shadows. Suddenly, another group appeared from the guardroom and marched into the square. The C/O simply ordered, “Proceed.”
The Sergeant Major stepped forward and read, “Private Hawkins, you have been found guilty of theft and are to be dismissed from the regiment.”
As he spoke, he approached Hawkins, withdrew his bayonet, slashed his epaulettes off and threw them away. A drummer-boy beat a slow tap-tap-tap.
“Take him to the gate!” the Sergeant Major snarled.
Downing Street
They sent an official car for me. Two motorcycle cops met us on the M40 and whisked us through the rush hour traffic to Downing Street. The Prime Minister, Foreign Secretary and Chancellor were waiting in the Cabinet Office, anxious and nervous. The PM introduced me and said, “We know you have a sound grasp of national and international affairs and we’d appreciate your advice on what HMG should do about the current political and financial problems.”
Well, I’d sorted the Euro, Russia and just started on the Middle East when the darned bin-men woke me up!
Miss Woodley
She was the only teacher in the one-roomed, Victorian schoolhouse for over forty years. She was small, patient and dedicated and kept all her pupils in check, even the Mulligan boys. She taught hundreds of village children the three Rs and much more. Some said her fiancée had perished on the Somme.
She cycled the four miles to school, summer and winter. To the entire village, she was Miss Woodley, respected and quietly admired.
When she retired, white-haired and fragile, she was replaced by a headmistress, two teachers a fulltime caretaker and a curriculum, sent down from London.