Mandy’s Revenge

‘Trust my luck’ thought Mandy as her train finally arrived in Plymouth. ‘Nearly midnight. Bloody Dawlish. Should’ve been here 2 hours ago, no taxis, so I’ll have to walk to Mum’s. I wonder if Jason has been in touch yet?’

She was torn between ending the relationship and accepting that she might have acted hastily this afternoon when they argued on their mobiles, although she was still upset that some slut of a model might have compromised him at the fashion promotion.

Turning left she began the half-mile walk. Reaching the final corner, she stopped dead. Jason’s red Ferrari was in the car park of a local company, which was closed for the night. It was parked barely 200 yards from her parent’s home.

It had a distinctive personalised number plate and dark tinted windows, making it impossible to see the interior. Mandy crossed the road slowly, moving cautiously towards it, then realised that it was actually swaying from side to side. She heard a sharp cry, before the motion within the car increased significantly.

‘You bastard!’ Mandy cried out hammering on the roof with her fists. This generated even more activity from the interior. The car rocked violently, before a raised voice, this time distinctly female, shouted ‘Go away.’

‘Right!’ screamed Mandy.’ That’s it. All bets off. Stand by.’

She reached into the depths of her handbag and drew out her ultimate protection. The blade on the flick knife sprang out. She knew that each tyre on a Ferrari cost nearly £500 because Jason constantly moaned about it.

The whoosh of air, and images of banknotes disappearing into the atmosphere gave her a distinct satisfaction. The movement from within the car stopped as it gradually settled onto its suspension and she heard a muffled conversation before the offside door slowly opened.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Oh it’s you darling,’ said her mother emerging from the car, her hair dishevelled, wearing the remnants of an M & S thong and wraparound black velour skirt. ‘We thought it was a sex pervert on the prowl.’

‘We? Who’s that!!’ Mandy screamed, as a middle aged man struggling to pull his trousers back over his shoes, tumbled out of the driver’s door.

‘Sorry darling. This is Philip. He used to be in the Navy.’

‘What are you doing in Jason’s car? Where is he?’

‘Well he turned up unexpectedly tonight looking for you. Said you’d had some sort of a tiff. Wanted to surprise you. Philip’s an absolute car freak so when Jason offered to let him have a go in his Ferrari, we jumped at it, but we only got this far, then decided to stop. It makes a such change from the Robin Reliant.’

‘Mum, where’s Jason?’

Sat at home; waiting for you. He’s been there a couple of hours. Why?’

‘Mum. I’ve just done 4 blow jobs at £500 each on his tyres. He’ll go absolutely spare.
And he did.

New release, Tide and Time

New release

Tide and Time

Tide and TimeTide and Time is the latest anthology published by the Plymouth Writers Group.  The book is divided up into stories relating to ‘time’ and ‘tide’, featuring poetry, flash fiction and short stories by members of the group.  The book additionally features five winning stories from our first writing competition.

Featured writers

Mary Curd, John L.Horsham, Louis Fletcher, Alan Grant, Elaine Dorr, Richard Brenton, Moyra MacKyan, Charles Becker, Birute Brown, Veronica Bright, Aia Peterson, Andy and Fay Williams, Sarah Adams, Matt Ewens, Rex Bromfield, Janet Newman, Kim Stringer, Tess Niland Kimber, Lidia A.Tsvetkova


Pages: 154

“Once again we are to be delighted and intrigued by the tour de literary force that is the now the
annual anthology of shorts stories and raconteurial delights from the long established and wholly reputable body ‘The Plymouth Writers’ Group’.Mike Sullivan

Always a splendid read; this latest issue excels in that it also enjoys a variety of contributions from writers outside the group. Its customary fictional cornucopia bejewelled with stories from writers scattered wide around the globe and representing the winners, the runners up and the highly commended from the group’s recent and eminently successful international short story competition.

There can be few genres not touched upon here, caressed even, by the lightest touch of the assorted authors’ pens and whipped into a bookish confection to delight even the most jaded palates.”

Michael C Sullivan
Poet Laureate to the City of Plymouth