Deborah Mercer

“Fire in the Belly” by Deborah Mercer

FIRE IN THE BELLYSometimes Annette Radcliffe just repeated the phrase, “I am an astronaut” over and over, not because she needed to convince herself it was true, not any longer, but because she loved the sound of it so much. She revelled in that simple affirmation. If she did not say it aloud, she thought it, found herself breathing to the rhythms of it.    When she was a child she watched the TV reports about the new moon mission that had finally come to pass after decades of promising and fine words and unders...

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“Seagull Island” by Deborah Mercer

SEAGULL ISLAND    “Well, what are we going to do now?” Janet asked. She was 15, so old enough for her tone to be defiant, but young enough for it to be anxious and there was a note of betrayal in it, too. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Graham and I hadn’t told her and her younger brother Maurice, whom we all called Mo, that there was nothing to worry about, because it probably hadn’t occurred to us there was. To say she’d been a reluctant fellow-traveller on our trip out to Seagull Island would b...

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“The Ascent of Mount St Stephens” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #8

THE ASCENT OF MOUNT ST STEPHENS    “You PROMISED, Auntie Deb!” Rowena insists.    If there are words that are more poignant, more irresistible, and more manipulative than those, especially when they come from the mouth of a five year old, then I would like to know them. Or maybe I wouldn’t!     Anyway, did I? Did I promise in so many words, or did I just mention? Something tells me that my niece Rowena, and my nephew Robert (they’re not actually brother and ...

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“It's the Little Things” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #7

IT’S THE LITTLE THINGSThree things occurred to Dina, in exactly this order, as she was vacuuming the lounge. It was lucky that she’d spotted the earring before she sucked it up in the Hoover (not because it was an expensive earring, but because it might have damaged the Hoover) - it was also lucky she had spotted it because although cheap, it was pretty, and she wouldn’t have liked to break up the pair. Oh – and the third thing? She was wearing the earrings in question, little artificial pearls, and there was one in each ...

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“Not Having Your Cake but Still Eating it” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #7

NOT HAVING YOUR CAKE BUT STILL EATING ITWhen Judith inherited her Auntie Lily’s cottage she was touched but not entirely surprised (Auntie Lily, who was really her great-aunt had told her she was considering leaving it to her twenty years ago when she was only seventy) and Auntie Lily had made it plain in her will that though she quite liked the idea of her (great) niece living in it she was also absolutely fine about her selling it if she chose.    Judith still wasn’t sure in her own mind what she wanted to do.&nbsp...

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“The Life and Times of the Why-Child” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #7

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE WHY-CHILD Mum came out with that business about my initials just being coincidence again today. Well, I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it as Mr Prentice says when we come up with some excuse for our homework not being done. Say what you like about Mum, but she’s not stupid, and she has a way with words and all that, and I can’t believe that it didn’t dawn on her that Wilhelmina Harriet Yarrow gives you WHY. I’d rather she was just honest about it.    Or would I? Lucy, who’...

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“Discharge” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #6

DISCHARGEI discharged myself from hospital in a state of blind panic. My stay there had done nothing to counter-act my long standing phobia. They tried to stop me, said they had still not worked out what caused my mysterious, painful skin condition and that it could be to do with my kidneys, and that they needed to take some  more tests and that I had not finished the course of antibiotics. They tried to persuade me, and in retrospect I feel sorry for one particular nurse, who was very kind, but I was having none of it.&n...

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“Saying Goodbye to Glenda” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #6

SAYING GOODBYE TO GLENDAWe set off far earlier than we needed to, especially as we had agreed to spread the journey over a couple of days. I’m not sure why. Perhaps you just do. Perhaps journeys like that don’t have their proper significance and go through their proper rituals unless they are started at a time when most people aren’t awake (though probably far more are than you imagined).     We rose and drank mugs of coffee while they were far too hot with no real need for such haste while we half-wat...

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“They Never Listen” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #6

THEY NEVER LISTEN    “People never listen,” the old man at the bridge said, as if it was something he had said a thousand times before, but it never ceased to surprise him. “Up to you, but they never listen!”    He was manning a little tollbooth. I couldn’t quite decide if it looked more like a miniature log cabin or a very primitive public toilet, though the cash till inside was surprisingly modern; its digital display bright in the gloom of an impending summer storm. “No refunds, you k...

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“The Rut” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #5

THE RUTLook, I’m not saying my life was boring. Okay, I AM saying my life was boring. Not unpleasant, not arduous, but it made the hero of Groundhog Day seem to live a positively unpredictable and spontaneous existence in comparison.    For days, weeks on end, it didn’t bother me, at least not on the surface. There was something comforting, or at any rate, something that meant I never had to feel uncomfortable about it seeming like a major event if I changed my breakfast cereal (and I didn’t really like cer...

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“Going up in the World” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #5

GOING UP IN THE WORLDMargaret was claustrophobic. She admitted to it, but always said things along the lines of “it’s fairly low-grade” or “it doesn’t affect my life”. It was absolutely fine to admit that she would rather sleep on a park bench than live in a basement flat, as in the first place it was hypothetical (or at least, for the foreseeable future!) and in the second place many would agree with her, and there would be empathetic nods. And a lot of people didn’t like tunnels, though they didn’t, perhaps, go quite to the ...

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“Dawn and Dusk” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #5

DAWN AND DUSKThey were called Dawn and Des, but there was a certain inevitability about them being nicknamed (affectionately, of course, their friends hastened to reassure themselves) Dawn and Dusk. At one point it had been considered very original and witty. They knew about it, of course, and didn’t seem to mind, though most people went through the motions of not saying “Dusk” to their faces.    The nickname had turned into a constant, but that did not mean there were not shifting sands and conflicting nuances....

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“Art and Life” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #5

ART AND LIFEEstelle had stopped asking people if they remembered her. It saved both her and them embarrassment. Yes, she lived in hope that someone, entirely of their own volition, would exclaim, “Weren’t you in Donington Drive?” Surely, given all the TV channels there were, there was one still showing reruns of it! It had quite a following in its time, even if it wasn’t gritty enough to be gritty and wasn’t glossy enough to be glossy, and nobody was either very rich or very poor. Estelle had played Mrs Carraway the ...

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“Betwixt and Between” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #4

 I don’t give a flying you know what about labels and demographics ( handy word – learnt it from an Open University Course in Politics, even though I never finished it – well, not yet) and all that jazz. Honestly.     Okay, maybe I protest too much! Of course I don’t want to be stereotyped but I still wish I had something more concrete to complain about – and it’s quite liberating that the tutor in my course in Creative Writing said it’s absolutely fine to end a sentence with a preposition.  Me an...

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“The Killjoy” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #4

Esther was nine. She was, as her mother said, picky. Not so much about food (though nobody had yet tempted her to try a walnut or a mushroom) but about clothes (her top always had to be a lighter colour than her skirt or trousers - it was just right that way!) and about where things were. Her toy hippo had to be to the left of her Welsh  doll with the tall hat, and her storybooks and what she called her “really” books, her word for non-fiction, kept on entirely different shelves. “It’s not even as if she’s ...

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