Yesterday, I was supposed to be having a quiet day out with my wife. We were headed for Teignmouth, just up the coast, for a day of casual shopping, lunch and a stroll along the seafront. I had written a bit before we left, but I intended to have a break and ignore the voices in my head for a few hours.
There was no chance of that. They had other plans. Before the day was out, I had two new story ideas. I had to buy a new notebook (yes, another one!), just to get the plot points of the first idea down before I forgot them.
This is what happened.
We had coffee on arrival and took a table near a mother and son enjoying quality time. The boy, who was about five or six, was the spitting image of our grandson, who lives with his mother in Australia. I mean dead ringer, not just a passing resemblance. While I used the facilities, Yvonne got chatting to the mother and remarked about the similarity. After agreeing that it was a coincidence, the woman asked what our grandson’s name was.
When my wife told her, she was astounded. “That’s HIS name, too,” she said.
Which led me to write this,
Idea One.
I thought that I saw my grandson today. I haven’t seen him in the flesh for a year, as he lives in Australia. But I chat to him on a video call every week.
What I saw was a child who could have been his identical twin.
He was the same height, moved the same way, had the same hair and face. He passed me, in the grip of his mother’s hand, his face screwed up and anxious in the crowds. I almost shouted his name, then I stopped myself. I realised that I was just being a silly old man.
I turned to watch them walk away, musing on how strange life was.
I normally speak to my daughter on the phone on Sundays, it’s our little ritual. Next time we spoke, I could tell her I’d seen Sean’s twin brother. I thought it would amuse her. Instead of Sunday, she called me early on Friday morning.
“Hi, Claire,” I said as her face appeared on the screen. She looked sick, her face red and eyes puffed up. Had she been crying? “What’s up?” I asked.
“It’s Sean,” she said. “He’s vanished. He’s been missing for two days. I’ve been with the police, we’re all searching for him. I haven’t been able to face calling you until now.”
As if that wasn’t enough, later in the day, we were watching the local news on the TV, when an item came on about a boy, on holiday collecting shells, who had found some human teeth. Experts were called and unearthed a previously unknown archaeological site, possibly a Bronze Age burial, which was now being excavated.
Immediately, my mind got this.
Idea two.
The dig had been going on for three days. A Bronze Age burial site, discovered by chance, was giving up its secrets on the wild Cornish coast.
Three bodies had already been discovered, crouched in death and adorned with artefacts that suggested an age of two to three thousand years since they had last seen the sunlight.
The diggers had extended the trench in both directions from the original find, in the hope of finding more remains when Simone Destrine’s trowel struck something solid.
“Something here,” she called, and Alex, the lead archaeologist, came over. “Where?” he asked, clambering down to stand behind her. Simone pointed, and he dug, feeling the trowel hit something.
“Interesting,” Alex said. “Clear around it.” He climbed back out of the trench and moved away to give her room, shining his torch so she had more light.
Simone dug again, about three inches to the left, feeling nothing. She angled the trowel and pushed. There it was again. She twisted the handle and felt whatever it was loosen in the soil. Alex carefully extended the hole, working back in a wide circle around her starting point. Then she started to remove the soil, working inwards.
Whatever it was, it was coming out. “Slowly,” said Alex, as the soil bulged. The object suddenly came clear of the soil and fell to the bottom of the trench.
Alex peered down, his mouth fell open in shock. “Isn’t that…,” he said.
“An old-style mobile phone,” Simone finished the sentence for him.
“Look there,” Alex added, as he swung the torch into the cavity left by her digging. “In the hole behind where it was. There’s another skull.”
This one was a lot more recent. There were scraps of flesh and brown hair still attached.
I have no idea if either of those will come to anything. For now, they’re in the folder marked possibles.
If you want to know more about this post or anything to do with my writing, just drop me a comment. Until next time,
Happy reading.
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Darlene Foster
Both great ideas. it’s amazing where ideas come from.
Richard Dee
Thanks, writing more will be a nice distraction for me, when I get stuck on my novel.