Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Horror / Scary
- Published: 04/06/2018
The Writers' Club
Born 1964, F, from Gordon, ACT, Australia“He gazed into her fading eyes as she died, and whispered ‘I will never forget you.’”
Claude bowed his head as the audience leapt to their feet in a frenzy of applause. A shrill ringing inserted itself into the general chaos of the auditorium, and Claude groaned in dismay as he was dragged from sleep into the grey frustration of real life.
He violently slapped his alarm clock to the ground where it continued screaming into the carpet. Claude wished it was possible to inflict actual pain on the damned thing. The best part of the dream, dammit! What rotten, rotten timing.
He sighed and heaved himself out of bed, got ready for another day at the office. Another day in paradise. Right.
His day passed in a blur of paperwork and telephone calls as he watched the clock slowly and maliciously creep its way to five o’clock.
Home again, quick shower and change of clothes, then off to his writers’ group.
Claude nervously cleared his throat. “Um, okay, so this is a kind of love slash murder story. I won’t read the whole thing, hehe, but I just want to read the killing bit. The … uh … climax, as it were. He paused, cleared his throat again and continued in a dull monotone. “Nancy looked in horror as her husband produced a knife. Er, a butcher’s knife, that is. A big … um … butcher’s knife.” Claude’s words dried up, and he felt hot sweat prickle under his arms as his audience fidgeted and darted uncomfortable looks at each other.
Claude sat back down, close to tears. “I guess it needs some work,” he whispered.
The rest of the meeting proceeded in a lively manner around him as Claude hunched, miserable and forgotten, in his chair.
Some of the group read out their own work – absolute drivel in Claude’s opinion, while others read out passages from books that “spoke to them”. Oh, please. Claude wasn’t sure what was more painful; the self-indulgent, hopelessly derivative crap that this group of writers thought passed for literature, or the ones who couldn’t even write their own material and droned out excruciatingly convoluted passages from books that were only ever written to enlighten and educate, never to entertain.
That these pretentious bores had the nerve to look down on him made Claude seethe with impotent rage.
He sat mutinously silent for the next two hours, his mind screaming with vile insults as the rest of the group took their turn reading. He felt isolated, excluded. He hated each and every one of them with a corrosive blackness that burned his very soul.
“Thank you all for coming,” said Frank Pepper, their self-appointed leader and convenor. “I think we had a great session tonight, some really good stuff.” He bestowed his smug grin on all those present and basked in their polite applause. “We need a volunteer to host next week’s group. Claude?”
Claude jumped guiltily. He hadn’t really been paying attention. “What? Oh yes, yes, of course,” he spluttered with no idea what he was agreeing to.
“Okay, that’s settled then. Claude’s place next Wednesday. Same time, different place.” Polite laughter. Claude sat there stunned at his unexpected turn in the spotlight. What the hell did he know about entertaining people?
He spent a productive Thursday at work feverishly scratching out a shopping list. Cheese cubes, salami, biscuits, chips, cheese dip … his imagination ran out. He googled suggested party food and was dismayed at the work involved in satisfying one’s guests. He hoped they didn’t judge him as harshly for his catering as they did his writing! Or maybe, with any luck, they’d all choke to death on biscuit crumbs.
Then again, maybe they would actually listen to his reading this time. After all, it would be terribly rude of them to criticise his work while they were busy cramming his food and drink into their greedy mouths. Oh God. Drinks! Alcoholic? Non-alcoholic? Some of each? Wine was always served at these things, and everyone made a pretentiously big deal out of sniffing, nodding, savouring, guzzling. Or perhaps they just preferred to think of themselves as connoisseurs rather than gluttonous old soaks.
He felt a panic attack looming, and surreptitiously popped a couple of Xanax into his mouth, glancing around to make sure his colleagues weren’t paying attention to him. Of course they weren’t. He was the invisible man. After four years, he wouldn’t have been surprised if no-one even knew his name.
The drug eventually worked its magic, his madly whirling thoughts slowed to a manageable level and he was able to think clearly again.
“C’mon, Claude,” he whispered to himself. “You’ve got this, man. Totally got it.” A couple of bottles of red wine, and a couple of bottles of white. Surely someone at the alcohol shop could advise him on a nice wine. And how hard could it be to buy enough snacky things to please such a small group?
He called in sick on Friday, there was no way he could focus on his work with this ordeal looming darkly over him. Instead, he spent the day at the supermarket which was blissfully empty on a workday. He stuffed the trolley with everything he could think of for his guests, then headed to the alcohol shop. A bored young man jumped at the chance to do something other than swing on his chair, and he helped Claude select half a dozen bottles of good wine.
By Sunday night, Claude was satisfied with his preparations. He still felt a little nervous in the role of host, but felt an unfamiliar sense of confidence that he had the situation under control. His sleep that night was deep and filled with dreams of amazed acclaim.
Wednesday dragged by with agonising slowness, despite repeated glances at the surly clock. It may be true that a watched pot never boils, but it is equally true that a watched clock never damn well moves. Claude left early, pleading a headache.
Claude stepped back and admired his handiwork. His mother’s old dining table gleamed with lemon scented wood-oil and it was almost a shame to cover it with her best blue floral linen tablecloth. Clean white bowls and plates held a variety of snacks, and the air was warmly redolent with the fragrant scent of sausage rolls and party pies heating in the oven.
A wine glass winked brightly from each place setting. Six bottles of uncorked wine sat along the middle of the table. Three red, three white. Something for everyone.
In the kitchen bin lay a pile of empty vials that had once contained his mother’s vast collection of sleeping medications and sedatives.
The first of his guests arrived. Melanie Bishop, a large woman with yellow horsey teeth and a brassy blond bob. Her eyes darted around Claude’s home, looking for something to judge.
“Your house is lovely!” she exclaimed with disappointment. “I thought you were a clerk or something. How could someone like you afford a place like this?”
Claude smirked modestly. “It belonged to my mother. I guess I inherited it once she passed.”
Melanie nodded, and she looked critically at Claude’s catering attempt. “Cabanossi and cheese. How very … eighties of you,” she sniffed.
Claude gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Excuse me, Melanie. I need to get the sausage rolls out of the oven.”
Melanie grinned unpleasantly. She had no doubt they were frozen shop-bought ones.
To Claude’s relief the rest of the group started showing up, one by one making a beeline for the alcohol like hounds on the scent of a fox.
Sylvia Slocombe, fashionably anorexic, wafted past Claude in a jangle of bracelets and perfume strong enough to make his eyes water. She took a tentative sip of wine and wrinkled her nose. “Mmm, a little … bitter, isn’t it.” Melanie sniggered and took a sip of her own wine, exchanging an empathetically judgmental look with Sylvia.
Petunia Littlebank shrugged and poured herself a generous glassful of red. “Hell, it’s got alcohol in it, who cares?” she wheezed. Her wrinkled lips puckered a little as she took a healthy sip, but it didn’t stop her from draining and refilling her glass.
Kevin Potts, a balding little man who combined a bad dye job with an equally bad comb-over, gamely took a sip of white. “It’s really not too bad,” he said, nodding eagerly at Claude. Kevin was one of the nicer members of the group, but sometimes Claude felt like buying him a spine and set of testicles.
Claude sipped his sparkling water and watched with barely concealed disgust as the group drank and ate. Watched as they talked non-stop with their mouths full, dropping crumbs and bits of food down their fronts and onto his carpet. Watched as one by one they sat down, suddenly and explicably so tired.
Fade to black.
When they came to, it was to find themselves thoroughly trussed to a set of sturdy wooden chairs in an airy living room, the carpet covered over with thick sheets of plastic.
“What the hell???” Frank struggled briefly and ineffectively with his bonds. “Claude? What are you doing?”
Everyone looked at Claude, waiting for a logical answer to his actions. Kevin’s combover had come somewhat adrift and sat in oily spikes on his head. Claude squashed a mad urge to smooth it down for him.
Claude looked at them coldly, and cleared his throat before looking down at his manuscript. “I didn’t get a chance to read much of my story last time,” he began.
Frank started kicking and struggling, his sweaty red face jerking back and forth like a child throwing a tantrum. “Enough’s enough, Claude. You let us go right now!”
Kevin nodded in agreement. “There’s been no harm done, Claude. Just let us go, we won’t say anything to anyone.”
Sylvia looked hopefully at him. “No, dear,” said Sylvia. “We won’t say a word. Honest!”
Petunia glared at him. “At least loosen these ropes, they’re cutting off my circulation.”
Claude lowered his manuscript in frustration. “You’re doing it again!” he screeched. “You’ve eaten my food, you’ve drunk my wine and you’re still not giving me the chance to …”
Frank cut him off. “Just untie us, we promise we’ll listen to whatever you want.” Nods all around.
Claude felt tears of frustration prick his eyes, could feel his face burning with unaccustomed anger. “Why can’t you just shut the hell up?” he yelled. “Just for one damn minute, let someone else talk!”
Contrarily, everyone began to shout demands at him and he covered his ears and wept. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!”
He strode away angrily. He’d damn well show them who was boss right now. He returned with a large roll of duct tape which he cut into strips with business-like efficiency, slapping the strips over their everlasting damned mouths.
The yelling muffled away to grunts, protests now limited to whatever movement they could manage. They still weren’t listening.
“JUST BE STILL, DAMN YOU!” Claude could feel the tears of frustration wetting his cheeks. “CAN’T YOU JUST BE QUIET FOR ONE CHRISTING SECOND?” His voice cracked with emotion and he paused, breathing heavily.
He went and fetched his mother’s old heavy duty wooden pegs that she used to use for pegging out the woollen blankets.
The grunting and muffled screaming finally died down and a blissful silence descended. Claude looked gratefully at his quiet, blue-faced audience, lifted his manuscript, and began.
The Writers' Club(Hazel Dow)
“He gazed into her fading eyes as she died, and whispered ‘I will never forget you.’”
Claude bowed his head as the audience leapt to their feet in a frenzy of applause. A shrill ringing inserted itself into the general chaos of the auditorium, and Claude groaned in dismay as he was dragged from sleep into the grey frustration of real life.
He violently slapped his alarm clock to the ground where it continued screaming into the carpet. Claude wished it was possible to inflict actual pain on the damned thing. The best part of the dream, dammit! What rotten, rotten timing.
He sighed and heaved himself out of bed, got ready for another day at the office. Another day in paradise. Right.
His day passed in a blur of paperwork and telephone calls as he watched the clock slowly and maliciously creep its way to five o’clock.
Home again, quick shower and change of clothes, then off to his writers’ group.
Claude nervously cleared his throat. “Um, okay, so this is a kind of love slash murder story. I won’t read the whole thing, hehe, but I just want to read the killing bit. The … uh … climax, as it were. He paused, cleared his throat again and continued in a dull monotone. “Nancy looked in horror as her husband produced a knife. Er, a butcher’s knife, that is. A big … um … butcher’s knife.” Claude’s words dried up, and he felt hot sweat prickle under his arms as his audience fidgeted and darted uncomfortable looks at each other.
Claude sat back down, close to tears. “I guess it needs some work,” he whispered.
The rest of the meeting proceeded in a lively manner around him as Claude hunched, miserable and forgotten, in his chair.
Some of the group read out their own work – absolute drivel in Claude’s opinion, while others read out passages from books that “spoke to them”. Oh, please. Claude wasn’t sure what was more painful; the self-indulgent, hopelessly derivative crap that this group of writers thought passed for literature, or the ones who couldn’t even write their own material and droned out excruciatingly convoluted passages from books that were only ever written to enlighten and educate, never to entertain.
That these pretentious bores had the nerve to look down on him made Claude seethe with impotent rage.
He sat mutinously silent for the next two hours, his mind screaming with vile insults as the rest of the group took their turn reading. He felt isolated, excluded. He hated each and every one of them with a corrosive blackness that burned his very soul.
“Thank you all for coming,” said Frank Pepper, their self-appointed leader and convenor. “I think we had a great session tonight, some really good stuff.” He bestowed his smug grin on all those present and basked in their polite applause. “We need a volunteer to host next week’s group. Claude?”
Claude jumped guiltily. He hadn’t really been paying attention. “What? Oh yes, yes, of course,” he spluttered with no idea what he was agreeing to.
“Okay, that’s settled then. Claude’s place next Wednesday. Same time, different place.” Polite laughter. Claude sat there stunned at his unexpected turn in the spotlight. What the hell did he know about entertaining people?
He spent a productive Thursday at work feverishly scratching out a shopping list. Cheese cubes, salami, biscuits, chips, cheese dip … his imagination ran out. He googled suggested party food and was dismayed at the work involved in satisfying one’s guests. He hoped they didn’t judge him as harshly for his catering as they did his writing! Or maybe, with any luck, they’d all choke to death on biscuit crumbs.
Then again, maybe they would actually listen to his reading this time. After all, it would be terribly rude of them to criticise his work while they were busy cramming his food and drink into their greedy mouths. Oh God. Drinks! Alcoholic? Non-alcoholic? Some of each? Wine was always served at these things, and everyone made a pretentiously big deal out of sniffing, nodding, savouring, guzzling. Or perhaps they just preferred to think of themselves as connoisseurs rather than gluttonous old soaks.
He felt a panic attack looming, and surreptitiously popped a couple of Xanax into his mouth, glancing around to make sure his colleagues weren’t paying attention to him. Of course they weren’t. He was the invisible man. After four years, he wouldn’t have been surprised if no-one even knew his name.
The drug eventually worked its magic, his madly whirling thoughts slowed to a manageable level and he was able to think clearly again.
“C’mon, Claude,” he whispered to himself. “You’ve got this, man. Totally got it.” A couple of bottles of red wine, and a couple of bottles of white. Surely someone at the alcohol shop could advise him on a nice wine. And how hard could it be to buy enough snacky things to please such a small group?
He called in sick on Friday, there was no way he could focus on his work with this ordeal looming darkly over him. Instead, he spent the day at the supermarket which was blissfully empty on a workday. He stuffed the trolley with everything he could think of for his guests, then headed to the alcohol shop. A bored young man jumped at the chance to do something other than swing on his chair, and he helped Claude select half a dozen bottles of good wine.
By Sunday night, Claude was satisfied with his preparations. He still felt a little nervous in the role of host, but felt an unfamiliar sense of confidence that he had the situation under control. His sleep that night was deep and filled with dreams of amazed acclaim.
Wednesday dragged by with agonising slowness, despite repeated glances at the surly clock. It may be true that a watched pot never boils, but it is equally true that a watched clock never damn well moves. Claude left early, pleading a headache.
Claude stepped back and admired his handiwork. His mother’s old dining table gleamed with lemon scented wood-oil and it was almost a shame to cover it with her best blue floral linen tablecloth. Clean white bowls and plates held a variety of snacks, and the air was warmly redolent with the fragrant scent of sausage rolls and party pies heating in the oven.
A wine glass winked brightly from each place setting. Six bottles of uncorked wine sat along the middle of the table. Three red, three white. Something for everyone.
In the kitchen bin lay a pile of empty vials that had once contained his mother’s vast collection of sleeping medications and sedatives.
The first of his guests arrived. Melanie Bishop, a large woman with yellow horsey teeth and a brassy blond bob. Her eyes darted around Claude’s home, looking for something to judge.
“Your house is lovely!” she exclaimed with disappointment. “I thought you were a clerk or something. How could someone like you afford a place like this?”
Claude smirked modestly. “It belonged to my mother. I guess I inherited it once she passed.”
Melanie nodded, and she looked critically at Claude’s catering attempt. “Cabanossi and cheese. How very … eighties of you,” she sniffed.
Claude gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Excuse me, Melanie. I need to get the sausage rolls out of the oven.”
Melanie grinned unpleasantly. She had no doubt they were frozen shop-bought ones.
To Claude’s relief the rest of the group started showing up, one by one making a beeline for the alcohol like hounds on the scent of a fox.
Sylvia Slocombe, fashionably anorexic, wafted past Claude in a jangle of bracelets and perfume strong enough to make his eyes water. She took a tentative sip of wine and wrinkled her nose. “Mmm, a little … bitter, isn’t it.” Melanie sniggered and took a sip of her own wine, exchanging an empathetically judgmental look with Sylvia.
Petunia Littlebank shrugged and poured herself a generous glassful of red. “Hell, it’s got alcohol in it, who cares?” she wheezed. Her wrinkled lips puckered a little as she took a healthy sip, but it didn’t stop her from draining and refilling her glass.
Kevin Potts, a balding little man who combined a bad dye job with an equally bad comb-over, gamely took a sip of white. “It’s really not too bad,” he said, nodding eagerly at Claude. Kevin was one of the nicer members of the group, but sometimes Claude felt like buying him a spine and set of testicles.
Claude sipped his sparkling water and watched with barely concealed disgust as the group drank and ate. Watched as they talked non-stop with their mouths full, dropping crumbs and bits of food down their fronts and onto his carpet. Watched as one by one they sat down, suddenly and explicably so tired.
Fade to black.
When they came to, it was to find themselves thoroughly trussed to a set of sturdy wooden chairs in an airy living room, the carpet covered over with thick sheets of plastic.
“What the hell???” Frank struggled briefly and ineffectively with his bonds. “Claude? What are you doing?”
Everyone looked at Claude, waiting for a logical answer to his actions. Kevin’s combover had come somewhat adrift and sat in oily spikes on his head. Claude squashed a mad urge to smooth it down for him.
Claude looked at them coldly, and cleared his throat before looking down at his manuscript. “I didn’t get a chance to read much of my story last time,” he began.
Frank started kicking and struggling, his sweaty red face jerking back and forth like a child throwing a tantrum. “Enough’s enough, Claude. You let us go right now!”
Kevin nodded in agreement. “There’s been no harm done, Claude. Just let us go, we won’t say anything to anyone.”
Sylvia looked hopefully at him. “No, dear,” said Sylvia. “We won’t say a word. Honest!”
Petunia glared at him. “At least loosen these ropes, they’re cutting off my circulation.”
Claude lowered his manuscript in frustration. “You’re doing it again!” he screeched. “You’ve eaten my food, you’ve drunk my wine and you’re still not giving me the chance to …”
Frank cut him off. “Just untie us, we promise we’ll listen to whatever you want.” Nods all around.
Claude felt tears of frustration prick his eyes, could feel his face burning with unaccustomed anger. “Why can’t you just shut the hell up?” he yelled. “Just for one damn minute, let someone else talk!”
Contrarily, everyone began to shout demands at him and he covered his ears and wept. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!”
He strode away angrily. He’d damn well show them who was boss right now. He returned with a large roll of duct tape which he cut into strips with business-like efficiency, slapping the strips over their everlasting damned mouths.
The yelling muffled away to grunts, protests now limited to whatever movement they could manage. They still weren’t listening.
“JUST BE STILL, DAMN YOU!” Claude could feel the tears of frustration wetting his cheeks. “CAN’T YOU JUST BE QUIET FOR ONE CHRISTING SECOND?” His voice cracked with emotion and he paused, breathing heavily.
He went and fetched his mother’s old heavy duty wooden pegs that she used to use for pegging out the woollen blankets.
The grunting and muffled screaming finally died down and a blissful silence descended. Claude looked gratefully at his quiet, blue-faced audience, lifted his manuscript, and began.
- Share this story on
- 12
Doug McCutcheon
05/05/2018Loved it! I loved the way you set it up so the reader would feel that giving Claude the thumbs-up at the end was the only thing to do. Excellent job; you’re going on my favorite authors lidt for sure!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Hazel Dow
06/01/2018Thanks Doug, I appreciate the support. It's comments like yours that give me the confidence to keep putting 'em up there.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kevin Hughes
05/01/2018Hazel, as dark as this story is, we all know him. And even at the end, folks didn't listen. Yikes. Love your writing, but just as precaution I hid the duck tape. LOL
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Hazel Dow
06/01/2018You could not imagine how frustrated I was getting with everyone for not shutting up! I'd hide the pegs as well, if I was you :-D
COMMENTS (3)