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Snap Shots
Snap Shots
Snap Shots
Ebook66 pages37 minutes

Snap Shots

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In his novel Writer's Cramp, and Pot Shots, his
first collection of short stories, Alan Blackwood
already displayed a great gift for brevity and
economy of words. In Snap Shots , he has
honed this gift to perfection. These are not
short stories as such but sketches of characters,
places and situations, brought vividly to life by
a microscopic eye for what is just enough and
not a single word more. The fact that nearly
all are based on the author's own experiences
brings them into even sharper focus. Such
gem-like pieces, funny or sad or somewhere in
between, are something quite new in the realm
of the written word.
'Alan Blackwood's short stories are
like novels condensed to a single page,
tantalising, evocative, poignant.'
John Carey, Emeritus Professor of
English Literature, Oxford University.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 29, 2019
ISBN9781528968560
Snap Shots
Author

Alan Blackwood

Alan Blackwood was a book publishing editor for much of his working life while writing numerous books on music. Now in his later years, he has turned to fiction, but with a big big difference. In his first published set of short stories, Snap  Shots, Alan aimed for brevity, in the belief that less is more. In Post Mortem he has taken the process further, concentrating his thoughts into a gem-like finish. From the erotic to the sad and sometimes darkly humorous, the thoughts, images, and situations have spilled out of him. You can’t call them stories. ‘Vignettes’ is the word that springs to mind. Do they work? Over to you, dear reader.

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    Book preview

    Snap Shots - Alan Blackwood

    About the Author

    Alan Blackwood was in the book publishing business for most of his working life. He is also the author of many books and features on music, including a biography of the famous conductor Sir Thomas Beecham. More recently he has turned to fiction, with a novel, Writer’s Cramp and Pot Shots, a collection of short stories. Snap Shots is his second essay in this medium.

    Alan Blackwood

    Snap Shots

    Copyright Information

    Copyright © Alan Blackwood (2019)

    The right of Alan Blackwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

    Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

    A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

    ISBN 9781528920346 (Paperback)

    ISBN 9781528968560 (ePub e-book)

    www.austinmacauley.com

    First Published (2019)

    Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

    25 Canada Square

    Canary Wharf

    London

    E14 5LQ

    Two’s Company

    ‘M ay I?’ She sat down across the table with a silken kiss of her legs and raised her glass. ‘Cheers!’

    The ship began to roll with the open sea. ‘I love going places, don’t you?’

    ‘Not at night,’ I said. Water and darkness. Like crossing the river Lethe.

    The mascara, the false eyelashes, gave her the wide-eyed gaze of a doll. ‘Are you a writer, or something?’

    ‘Sort of.’

    ‘It must be wonderful to write.’ She watched the lights of the ferry going the other way. ‘Ships that pass in the night,’ she added dreamily.

    A distant beam of light swung in a lazy arc. The French coast. ‘Hasn’t the time gone quickly!?’ She smiled over my shoulder. ‘Alright, darling?’ Bill had to take his seasick pill and lie down.

    On the car deck the names Bill and Sandra were stuck over the top of their windscreen. Then we were off in a blue haze of exhaust.

    Ships that pass in the night.

    Cat Flap

    Like waiting for a pot to boil, the phone will never ring as long as you wait. The front door answerphone buzzed instead.

    A woman asked if she could leave a notice with us about a missing cat. She waited downstairs, wrapped up against the wind under a sky as hard and grey as pumice. Lost, said her sad notice, above a colour photograph of a furry little face, startled perhaps by the flash of the camera. Her name was Biscuit.

    ‘Poor little Biscuit,’ I said. But the woman had already gone, too cold to hang about.

    A change in the weather brought clouds and rain, or tears to trickle down all those other pictures of the same furry little face, stuck on fences and around lampposts.

    ‘Any luck?’ On

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