A collection of short stories written by Gareth Davies author of novels Maggie’s Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition. Over 800 free short stories and 100 poems. Please note all works are first drafts. Enjoy, leave comments, share on social media and be inspired.
Check out the details of my novels here
For audio click here This is a work in progress. I will edit this and play with it in the coming days.
“Who the fuck has put this fucking song on
the fucking juke box again?” yelled Big Bryn the barman.
Davey took a sip of his pint trying to look innocent, but everybody knew it was
his favourite tune. His perfectly
coiffured hair waved gently as someone threw the bar door open. The smell of
Chanel Number 5 told Davey it was Maria. He looked up to see her ample backside
poured into the smallest pair of jeans on the planet. How on earth had she
managed to get into them? Davey thought. But what he was really hoping was that
one of these days he’d get the chance to peel them off.
She was followed into the bar by the lads; Marty, Johnny, and Choirboi, the smell
of Embassy Number 1s drowning out the sweet perfume. Davey used to be
the fourth member of the gang, but he'd be told to sling his hook when his Duran
Duran obsession became too much. The lads had followed their destiny down
the pit as soon as it was legal to leave school; they weren't interested in qualifications,
poncey music, and flowing locks - make up was certainly a no-no. But Davey was
different, he’d never wanted to go down the pit. Davey had o-levels and was
studying for a BTEC at college. He had his sights set on the bright lights of
Cardiff, if he could make it there, he could make it anywhere.
“Davey's in then,” Choirboi said when he heard Girls on Film playing in the juke box
“I thought I could smell perfume,” Marty said and the others laughed. Girls on Film was just ending. It was
time to go home. Davey had about five fingers of his pint left; too much
to neck in one go. He took a big mouthful and put his wallet in his pocket.
Another smaller one and pulled his jacket on, then a third one and was standing
“See you, Ronnie,” the lads yelled. Davey looked longingly at Maria as he left,
hoping she'd take pity on him and leave with him. But she laughed at the name
Ronnie and took a sip of her Vodka and Coke.
Davey kicked a can all the way home. The rattle of metal on concrete somehow
soothing his troubled mind. He had to get out of this place. It was time
to make a decision. It was now or never.
I am trying something new with this piece, it is very much a first draft. Any feedback welcome. Thank you. For audio click here
Tuesday, June 23rd, 2026
Brexit Day, Public Holiday, England and Wales
(not Scotland or Northern Ireland)
If you had told me fifteen years ago that I
would be standing on Trafalgar Square cheering the unveiling of a fifteen-foot
statue of Nigel Farage, I would have laughed in your face. Well, guess where I
was today. Yes, today is Brexit Day, a new annual Public Holiday inaugurated this
year to mark the tenth anniversary of the people taking back control and making
Britain Great again. How did that go for us again?
To mark the occasion, I was one of the
thirty-five thousand lucky ones who received an invitation to the unveiling of
a special memorial. We weren’t told what the memorial would be and central
London has been under lockdown for the past two weeks, so no one had a clue what
was being prepared for the celebrations.
Of course, I didn’t want to go, but the
invitation made it plain that non-compliance would lead to arrest and internment
on grounds of unBritish behaviour; a day out in Trafalgar Square in the
sunshine seem preferable to a stretch at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Of course, I
didn’t want to cheer either, but again the invite made it plain that all
invitees were strongly encouraged to show their patriotic spirit.
There’s a photo that used to do the rounds
on Facebook, (remember that) of a man not saluting Hitler when all those around
him were. I’ve often wondered what happened to that man. It struck me as a
futile gesture. No doubt he was arrested and shot and probably made out to be a
spy or terrorist. So, although he stood
up for what he believed in, it didn’t do anyone any good, especially not him. Wouldn't he have been better off saluting, thus staying alive and working in the resistance.
Anyway, I’m ashamed to say, I sang the national
anthem with gusto, cheered when the frail figure of the queen came on stage and
reserved my loudest screams for when Mr Farage pulled the chord and revealed the
statue of himself.
But like Winston in Orwell’s Nineteen
Eight-Four, (on the banned list now of course), I’ve decided that enough is
enough. I may not be able to show my dissent in public, but I can do it
privately, and I can start with this diary. I will use this diary as my
confessional, as my penance for when society forces me to do things which I don’t
I used to love London but I don’t get there
much these days. So I decided to walk to Trafalgar Square from Liverpool Street ,partly
for old time’s sake and partly because I hate using the Underground,
the threat of power cuts and flooding just makes it damn scary. I went to Uni
around there so even in its current state it brings back happy memories of the 20-year-old
me, drinking, exploring, finding myself. I thought I was so grown up, I was
just a little boy. I remember the bombings back then though. The Baltic
Exchange and the Threadneedle Street attacks. I heard one of them on my way
back from the shops and I lived eight miles away. Most of the buildings look
bomb damaged these days too. The old NatWest tower is a shadow of its former
self; it used to be the tallest building in the City of London, but now it’s an
empty hollow shell; the wind clattering the blinds in the gaps where the
windows once were. In the shadow of the crumbling tower, two kids were jumping
up and down on an old Skoda singing that awful Send Them Home song, I longed to remind them they had all gone home, but you can’t trust
kids. They’ll go rushing back to their dads and the next to you know
the vigilantes are out looking for you.
As I came out of the City of London and
headed towards Charing Cross the crowds began to grow. Men, women and children
in their union jack hats, waistcoats, t-shirts. People waved placards with Farage and the
Queen and some people had some retro posters from the Out campaign. Land of Hope and Glory rang out from the speakers
that lined the streets. Women and children ate ice creams while the men drank free Bomber Ale. I drank mine slowly but I
longed for an Ice Cream.
I tried to avoid eye contact with the
masses in case someone saw the doubts in my eyes. Do all of these people really
believe in the lies we’re being fed? Do they all really believe Britain is
Great again? Or are they all like me, too scared or too pragmatic to speak out?
I hope it is the latter, I fear it is the former.
I’ll say one thing for Farage, he doesn’t like
to hang about;they say it's security but he probably doesn’t want to spend too long away from the pub.
The event was over in a flash, anthem, the Royal Brexit Day Address, Farage’s
speech, a rendition of Rule Britannia and then we were asked kindly to
disassemble, which I was only too pleased to do.