Deborah Mercer

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2019

Stories (321)

321 Stories

9615 karma pts

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“Don't Pause, Repeat” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #84

I know what day it is. I know it is today. I know it is today because the sun has risen, and I know it must be summer, because the sun has risen early. At least I think it has risen early. I don’t have a clock, as well as not having a calendar. I seem to remember that I tried to resurrect half forgotten skills that I had let fade into barely cogent memories and improvise some means of telling the time and the date with items that cast shadows and marks on a sheet of paper. I wish I had kept it up, but there seemed to be no point to it, and I...

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“Leaflets” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #84

In the end it was later than it was supposed to be, and the summer solstice had slipped past – in itself a grey, gloomy day, with dull drizzle, and below average temperatures, as if it knew, and acquiesced to the anticlimax, and mirrored the melancholy. The days had already started to draw in, and the dawn to come later, and autumn to tinge the air before the last of the restrictions were lifted. But now they had been lifted, and now lockdown was finally over, and the Prime Minister repeated words like irreversible and used words like resurg...

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“When the Plumbing Went Wrong” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #83

“That’ll be fine,” said Naomi, when the smartly dressed young woman with the intimidatingly sincere smile on the Reception Desk at the Sea Breeze holiday village told her of the new arrangements. But she was barely out of the reception area with its tamed cacti and unnaturally glossy yucca plants when she thought. No. No it isn’t fine at all. Why did I say it? She knew why she had said it, and there was not one reason, but two, and they were intertwined and contradictory. Naomi had known what manuals written for counsellors call Challenging ...

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“The Night of the Half Moon” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #83

“I blame his grandfather” said Sally Henson, and it sounded more peevish than she had meant it to, but she would have been lying if she’d said she was sorry it did. “And I take it I don’t need to ask which grandfather you mean?” her husband Alec asked, rhetorically. It seemed as if they were going to quarrel, and neither of them wanted it, but neither of them intended going out of their way to avoid it. Sally, who always believed in being fair, said, “Your father is a good man, Alec, and he’s always been kind to me. I like his stories, too. ...

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“The Operatic Anomaly” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #82

So far as anybody knew, but of course this was long before the advent of social media, they had never met , although their lives did overlap, but both the eminent composer Marcel Evans (1860-1935) and the computing pioneer Robert Ridgeway (1900-1951) had lived in the modest little midlands town of Woodington. It was quite a poser, if you thought about it. The town was pleasant enough, but even those who lived their nowadays had to admit that there was nothing that spectacular about it apart from its two famous residents by choice. It had no ...

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“Taking the Tablet” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #82

“Honestly, Sheila, once you’re used to it – and it will take no time at all – you’ll wonder how you ever managed without it,” said Frances. Sheila was suitably grateful – on the surface. But why couldn’t people realise that when you said you wanted a book, or perhaps even a book token, that was what you wanted. Not some piece of rectangular black plastic. And she still thought of a tablet as what you took when you got a headache (which might not be too far distant if Frances carried on enthusing at full tilt) or perhaps what you put in your ...

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“The Ones Who Really Care” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #82

   “Some of them think she’s real, bless them,” said Adrienne, drinking deep of her mug of tea. There was a saying about tea so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. Well, that didn’t really exist, of course, but Adrienne, the “head of the care team” as she called herself, at the Tall Pines Care Home (which had a few stunted conifers bought when they were on offer at the local garden centre dotted at irregular intervals around the grounds) seemed determined to prove that it was not just a figure of speech. “And am I much be...

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“A Cry Across the Street” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #81

It was as if Stephanie had suddenly gone blind to everything around her apart from one person. The street blurred, the vehicles blurred, the buildings, and all the people blurred. Except one. And he was visible and present with an intensity that was glorious and frightening. Nicholas! It was Nicholas! She recognised his curly brown hair, his gait that was confident without ever being a smug swagger, and his very presence. Stephanie was a person who didn’t generally call attention to herself or take the initiative but this was an exception. L...

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“The Postponement Potential” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #81

My first thought was, he has to be joking! I wish now I’d just come straight out and said it. Well, maybe worded it a little bit more tactfully (or maybe not) but did I really have to say “That’ll be lovely!” Perhaps it slipped out through force of habit or before I had thoroughly processed exactly what he was saying. Anyway, Leon certainly didn’t seem to detect any note of sarcasm in it and looked delighted. There are a couple of things I have to remember before I start feeling too bad about wishing I’d told him that he had to be joking. I’...

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“My dear Isobel/Howard” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #81

The two emails, identical apart from the name, arrived at exactly the same time, and bore the same subject heading of My Last Request. They were sent from the email address of a solicitor called Robert Hampstead, but he was not the one who had written them. My dear Isobel/Howard Robert has promised me that he will see to this for me when the time comes. Oh, how they love that phrase on those rather tedious adverts for life insurance. Well, my time is coming and I know it. You both do as well, and I thank you both for not assuring me I’ll be ...

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“Pottering” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #81

“I’m just going for a potter round the garden, love,” Jack said. “Fine,” Delia said, with a smile. But though she hoped it didn’t show, the smile was forced and actually no, it wasn’t fine. But how could she say so or even raise the subject without sounding mean? Maybe it was true that a lot of men eventually turned into their fathers. But the trouble was, over the last few years, Jack had been turning into his grandfather. Now Delia had been extremely fond of Jack’s grandfather, the late Herbert Mason. He was a lovely man. He had taken her ...

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“A Breach of Health and Safety” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #81

Well, that wasn’t quite how they’d planned it to be. True, their plans hadn’t been exactly finalised. They had both agreed that they didn’t want it to be anywhere posh. Alexandra, whom everyone called Lexie (she had once shortened it to Alexa, but the jokes about recommending a playlist or a garage had worn rather thin) and Oliver were united in their dislike of hovering waiters and paying the price of a small car for a plate with two slivers of carrot and one sliver of chicken. But they didn’t want it just to be at McDonalds or the local fi...

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“Aubade and Requiem” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #80

They will ask me where I was when this happened, thought Mira. Some day, if I am blessed with them, my grandchildren, and even my great grandchildren will ask me, and I will tell them I saw it all unfold on a television screen, and that I turned it on just for a bit of background, just for “wallpaper”, and wondered why they were showing a horror film on a news channel at that hour in the morning. She sat transfixed and terrified as those two great towers turned into pillars of flame, and a scar was cut through them that would never heal. She...

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“A Message from Dadda” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #80

I don’t know if it’s more daunting and disconcerting to pick out individual faces or to let them all blur into a sea. I try to focus on the potent symbol of the earth with the olive branches. I have seen it on television enough times. But now millions will be watching ME on television, and there is still something so bizarre and alien about it. I’m not the kind of person who does this! I’m just a dumpy middle aged school teacher from a quiet coastal town, and I’m not even the kind of teacher who comes over as especially charismatic, though I...

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“Something in the Air” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #80

It would be fair to say that the Museum of Coastal Heritage was not exactly state of the art. There were still rows of locked glass display cabinets and a profusion of not terribly good pictures on the walls of famous locals whom not many people had heard of. Uncomfortable looking horse-hair stuffed couches had ropes across them and signs saying “Please do not sit here”, and faded photographs of fishermen hung alongside the nets they had used. Interactive displays and virtual reality headsets had not yet penetrated the heavy oak doors of the...

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Author bio

Hi, I'm Deborah, generally known as Debbie. I'm growing middle-aged disgracefully in a small town on the East coast of England where I work for a local charity. My passions in life are writing, reading, cats, chess, crosswords, cheese, and shouting at the radio!

Shortlisted 3 stories ⭐️

Contest #26
Five Years Afterwards – read story
Contest #16
The Big Surprise – read story
Contest #12
The Tangled Town – read story