Discussion
I've always loved short stories; I used to read them as a child. It seems to be a type of writing that is highly respected by other writers but not overly popular of late.
I've wanted to write a collection of short stories for a while but before I start, I ought to read more as I've not read nearly enough and until recently I had only read novels. I'm half way through Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson, I've read a few of Poe, some largely unknown ones and I've just read A Sound of Thunder.
What other short stories are 'must reads'?
I've wanted to write a collection of short stories for a while but before I start, I ought to read more as I've not read nearly enough and until recently I had only read novels. I'm half way through Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson, I've read a few of Poe, some largely unknown ones and I've just read A Sound of Thunder.
What other short stories are 'must reads'?
All the Biggles books are fantastic short stories - either the post-WW1 books that are an entire story per book, or the WW1 setting books which are themselves a collection of even shorter stories a chapter or 2 in length.
The best 16 books (out of the 100+ written) are currently in print by Red Fox
The best 16 books (out of the 100+ written) are currently in print by Red Fox
Bit of a thread revival here, but I have recently dug up a short story i wrote back in high school and decided to give it a bit of polishing. My writing style is very much influenced by my 2 favourite fiction writers - thriller novelist Clive Cussler, and the Boy's Own style of Biggles writer Capt. W.E. Johns.
Let me know what you think!
The Rescue
It was a rainy day in 1943. The ground was covered in standing water, and all operations at RAF Leuchars, a coastal Command base in Scotland, had been cancelled. All except one.
Somewhere over the North Sea at 12,000 feet, a lone DeHavilland Mosquito reconnaissance plane roared defiantly through the rain, homeward bound.
"Not a moment too soon", thought the Pilot, Squadron Leader George Smythe, as he tried unsuccessfully for the sixth time to make contact with the airfield over the wireless. His mission to photograph the German defences in a Norwegian Fjord had been a total washout, obscured by the low, thick cloud.
“Dash this weather,” he muttered to himself, knowing that the storm was disrupting his radio reception. Shivering, he huddled lower in his Irvin jacket and peered through the windscreen, straining to see though the driving rain that reduced visibility to virtually nothing, and constantly checking his compass to make sure he was on the right course.
Suddenly, the starboard Rolls Royce V-12 engine coughed and backfired. With an ear-splitting bang, it finally seized and exploded, shredding a large portion of the wing. Smythe instinctively ducked as pieces of debris bounced off the cockpit and smashed the canopy, and fought in vain with controls as a severed aileron trailed uselessly in the slipstream. As an oil fire from the shattered fluid lines began to take hold in the remains of the wooden wing structure, the plane slowly rolled onto its back and went into a dive it would never come out of.
“Mayday, Mayday, this is Red One going down, repeat, I am going down,” Smythe frantically yelled into the radio before, struggling against dive-induced the g-forces, he heaved back the battered canopy and bailed out. To his relief his parachute opened with a mighty jerk, leaving him to watch as the stricken Mosquito plunged into the dark swirling sea with an almighty splash. He knew with a sickening feeling that he would be following it.
He knew it was going to be unpleasant, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock of just how cold the water was – indeed, it was like ‘being stabbed with a thousand knives’, to quote the phrase he had so often heard from fellow pilots who had ditched in the sea and survived. As he went under, he hastily unbuckled his parachute to prevent it enveloping and drowning him. Gasping at the sheer cold, he swam to distance himself from the jellyfish-like parachute, whilst struggling to remove the Irvin jacket that was now rapidly multiplying in weight.
For perhaps an hour, maybe two – he had no way of telling how long for his watch had stopped in the water – he floated in his Mae-West life vest, tossed about by the angry waves and aware that each further minute he spent in the frigid water significantly reduced his chances of survival. Even if nobody had heard his Mayday call, he would soon be missed at base and efforts would be made to search back along his planned course. Would help come in time, though? Surely he must succumb to hypothermia soon - he could no longer feel his hands or feet, and delirium began to set in as his body temperature dropped.
Was he hearing things now, or was that a drone coming from up above? It was- it was an aircraft! A Short Sunderland search and rescue aircraft materialised out of the gloom, and he hurriedly fumbled with his frozen fingers to remove the maritime flare from his lifejacket pocket. He fired it just in time, and as the dull orange projectile streaked across the sky an inflatable lifeboat appeared from the back of the Sunderland. It descended towards him, landing with a loud slap on the water a few yards away - he was saved! Clambering aboard, he waved a grateful greeting as the huge search and rescue aircraft circled overhead, and watched as it turned and lumbered back to its port.
He settled down in the lifeboat, safe in the knowledge that the crew would have passed on his position to the Navy. Sure enough, a little over an hour later, a trail of smoke appeared, and slowly revealed itself to be a Royal Navy cruiser. As it drew nearer, he could see men running about on the decks with binoculars, and he could hear crisp commands echoing across the water. As the cruiser drew alongside and gradually slowed to a halt, a greeting rang out from the deck.
“Are you Smythe?” it asked.
“That's me!,” he yelled back, “I say, how about getting me out of the drink?”
“Hold on, grab this,” the voice replied, as a youthful sailor ran across the deck, leaned over the railing and fastened some rigging to the rail. With a practiced heave, he threw the other end over the side. No sooner had the rigging tumbled into the water, unraveling as it went, Smythe grabbed hold of it for dear life before the waves could whip it away again. Tying a securing strap from the lifeboat to the end, he proceeded to haul himself towards the ship with some difficulty, hampered by his saturated clothes and numb limbs. Reaching the railing, a waiting group of sailors grabbed his arms and helped pull him over, whereupon he flopped to the deck like a wet fish, exhausted by his exertion and the cold. Slowly dragging himself into a sitting position, he watched as the sailors proceeded to recover the rigging and attached lifeboat, manhandling it onto the deck.
“Gosh, thanks for all your effort chaps,” Smythe congratulated them through chattering teeth, “it was jolly cold out there! Now, I believe I have a date with a blanket and a rather large cup of tea ”…
Let me know what you think!
The Rescue
It was a rainy day in 1943. The ground was covered in standing water, and all operations at RAF Leuchars, a coastal Command base in Scotland, had been cancelled. All except one.
Somewhere over the North Sea at 12,000 feet, a lone DeHavilland Mosquito reconnaissance plane roared defiantly through the rain, homeward bound.
"Not a moment too soon", thought the Pilot, Squadron Leader George Smythe, as he tried unsuccessfully for the sixth time to make contact with the airfield over the wireless. His mission to photograph the German defences in a Norwegian Fjord had been a total washout, obscured by the low, thick cloud.
“Dash this weather,” he muttered to himself, knowing that the storm was disrupting his radio reception. Shivering, he huddled lower in his Irvin jacket and peered through the windscreen, straining to see though the driving rain that reduced visibility to virtually nothing, and constantly checking his compass to make sure he was on the right course.
Suddenly, the starboard Rolls Royce V-12 engine coughed and backfired. With an ear-splitting bang, it finally seized and exploded, shredding a large portion of the wing. Smythe instinctively ducked as pieces of debris bounced off the cockpit and smashed the canopy, and fought in vain with controls as a severed aileron trailed uselessly in the slipstream. As an oil fire from the shattered fluid lines began to take hold in the remains of the wooden wing structure, the plane slowly rolled onto its back and went into a dive it would never come out of.
“Mayday, Mayday, this is Red One going down, repeat, I am going down,” Smythe frantically yelled into the radio before, struggling against dive-induced the g-forces, he heaved back the battered canopy and bailed out. To his relief his parachute opened with a mighty jerk, leaving him to watch as the stricken Mosquito plunged into the dark swirling sea with an almighty splash. He knew with a sickening feeling that he would be following it.
He knew it was going to be unpleasant, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock of just how cold the water was – indeed, it was like ‘being stabbed with a thousand knives’, to quote the phrase he had so often heard from fellow pilots who had ditched in the sea and survived. As he went under, he hastily unbuckled his parachute to prevent it enveloping and drowning him. Gasping at the sheer cold, he swam to distance himself from the jellyfish-like parachute, whilst struggling to remove the Irvin jacket that was now rapidly multiplying in weight.
For perhaps an hour, maybe two – he had no way of telling how long for his watch had stopped in the water – he floated in his Mae-West life vest, tossed about by the angry waves and aware that each further minute he spent in the frigid water significantly reduced his chances of survival. Even if nobody had heard his Mayday call, he would soon be missed at base and efforts would be made to search back along his planned course. Would help come in time, though? Surely he must succumb to hypothermia soon - he could no longer feel his hands or feet, and delirium began to set in as his body temperature dropped.
Was he hearing things now, or was that a drone coming from up above? It was- it was an aircraft! A Short Sunderland search and rescue aircraft materialised out of the gloom, and he hurriedly fumbled with his frozen fingers to remove the maritime flare from his lifejacket pocket. He fired it just in time, and as the dull orange projectile streaked across the sky an inflatable lifeboat appeared from the back of the Sunderland. It descended towards him, landing with a loud slap on the water a few yards away - he was saved! Clambering aboard, he waved a grateful greeting as the huge search and rescue aircraft circled overhead, and watched as it turned and lumbered back to its port.
He settled down in the lifeboat, safe in the knowledge that the crew would have passed on his position to the Navy. Sure enough, a little over an hour later, a trail of smoke appeared, and slowly revealed itself to be a Royal Navy cruiser. As it drew nearer, he could see men running about on the decks with binoculars, and he could hear crisp commands echoing across the water. As the cruiser drew alongside and gradually slowed to a halt, a greeting rang out from the deck.
“Are you Smythe?” it asked.
“That's me!,” he yelled back, “I say, how about getting me out of the drink?”
“Hold on, grab this,” the voice replied, as a youthful sailor ran across the deck, leaned over the railing and fastened some rigging to the rail. With a practiced heave, he threw the other end over the side. No sooner had the rigging tumbled into the water, unraveling as it went, Smythe grabbed hold of it for dear life before the waves could whip it away again. Tying a securing strap from the lifeboat to the end, he proceeded to haul himself towards the ship with some difficulty, hampered by his saturated clothes and numb limbs. Reaching the railing, a waiting group of sailors grabbed his arms and helped pull him over, whereupon he flopped to the deck like a wet fish, exhausted by his exertion and the cold. Slowly dragging himself into a sitting position, he watched as the sailors proceeded to recover the rigging and attached lifeboat, manhandling it onto the deck.
“Gosh, thanks for all your effort chaps,” Smythe congratulated them through chattering teeth, “it was jolly cold out there! Now, I believe I have a date with a blanket and a rather large cup of tea ”…
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