{"id":27836,"date":"2007-02-01T15:24:17","date_gmt":"2007-02-01T15:24:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/?p=27836"},"modified":"2013-09-10T15:45:26","modified_gmt":"2013-09-10T14:45:26","slug":"julian-graff-short-story-competition-2007","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/?p=27836","title":{"rendered":"Julian Graff – Short Story Competition 2007"},"content":{"rendered":"

A Short History of Hastings Pier<\/span><\/strong>
\n<\/b><\/p>\n

Opened in admiration, with anticipation, to acclamation: 1872.<\/p>\n

Closed by dereliction, in disgrace, to dismay: 2006.<\/p>\n

The end?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Crossed Wires<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs that the publisher?\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, that\u2019s me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s about the competition. Free entry, it says.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cAh yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo I qualify?\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, do you live or work here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, but I visit the House of Plenty.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, I don\u2019t think I know that particular establishment. Where is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOn the London Road. It\u2019s right on the London Road.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cWell part of the London Road is certainly in our catchment area.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I don\u2019t live there. Or work there. I just visit. I\u2019m there looking for work, you see.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cLooking for work at the House of Plenty?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right. They have advisors, telephones, computers and everything. Well, everything but jobs that\u2019ll take me.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cAh, I think I see. You mean the DHS office.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the one. The House of Plenty on London Road. Do I qualify?\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s an interesting question. The boundaries of the area aren\u2019t fixed in stone, so to speak. Perhaps we should change the rules \u2013 make it open to anyone who reads our newsletter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo do I qualify?\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t see why not. So you\u2019ve got a story, then. Or an idea for one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStory? A story? Do you think I\u2019ve got nothing better to do? I\u2019ve already told you, I\u2019m looking for work, me.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cThank you so much for calling.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hotel Paradiso<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

The pigeons came home to roost.<\/p>\n

So too the vandals of the home-grown, not the corporate breed. Still, there was no satisfaction: where once townsfolk bemoaned the dereliction of a beautiful building, they now shook their heads in disbelief at the state of its successor.<\/p>\n

The genesis was not without promise: once the objections were buried, petitions acknowledged and ignored and deals stamped by unaccountable committee, the local landmark, formerly workplace of hot-metal minders, engineers, typesetters, scribes, secretaries and executives (bosses, we called them then), the object of acquisition was reduced to rubble.<\/p>\n

In its place, glowering and maximising every inch of airspace, a ubiquitous link in a chain of hotels, its facile fa\u00e7ade dominating, standing out like a sore, well, like a sore.<\/p>\n

Few complained then, when the chamber maids and bright sparks, plumbers of every origin and administrators of all hues and hierarchies had been hired. A boost to the local economy, it was said.<\/p>\n

Then the takings dropped, focus groups dissolved and the clientele followed en-suite. Letters in the paper revealed all: \u2018Never go back\u2019. \u2018Used to love this town, but\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n

It was that noise, apparently. Despite the hi-tech, the architect, planners and PR, there was this constant booming, a rhythmic pounding.<\/p>\n

The sea, perhaps, striving to reclaim its shore. Or the coastal wind, harmonising off-key with the shoddy superstructure.<\/p>\n

Only old-timers discerned the clank of the presses, the ethereal and enduring agony of metal fused with man. Only the pigeons didn\u2019t give a hoot.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The end of the road<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

It had been an uphill struggle and now came the ineluctable descent to destruction.<\/p>\n

Apposite words, Jack thought, given the terrain around here. Yet he remained enraged, frustrated.<\/p>\n

Why hadn\u2019t he seen it coming?<\/p>\n

All the signs were there, obvious now in retrospect, with the benefit of hindsight.<\/p>\n

Hadn\u2019t she been increasingly unresponsive to his touch? Despite his coaching, his coaxing, the old spark just wasn\u2019t there. In truth, the relationship had been running into trouble for some time.<\/p>\n

Why hadn\u2019t he acted earlier?<\/p>\n

Full of self-loathing, matched only by unrestrained ire against his soon-to-be departed partner, Jack began to count the financial cost of this breakdown. An extension to the mortgage? A personal loan? Just what would it take to see them through this painful change?<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t care, unfeeling cow. It wasn\u2019t as if he hadn\u2019t paid her enough attention, lavished hundreds, thousands on her, taken her to all the right places. All to no avail.<\/p>\n

Now it was time to split. There was no turning back. Maybe it had been a clash of cultures: when the going had been good, he\u2019d given little thought to their different backgrounds, styles, tastes.<\/p>\n

Now, as Jack coasted downhill towards the Garage on the Green, he was determined not to make the same mistake again. He was going to trade in his faithless Honda for a Rover.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Short History of Hastings Pier Opened in admiration, with anticipation, to acclamation: 1872. Closed by dereliction, in disgrace, to dismay: 2006. The end?   Crossed Wires \u201cIs that the publisher?\u201d \u201cYes, that\u2019s… Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":27,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[153],"tags":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27836"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/27"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=27836"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27836\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27838,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27836\/revisions\/27838"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=27836"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=27836"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=27836"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}