GAME 8

Story 1

‘That’s not Santa Claus,’ said Darren. ‘That’s just a guy dressed up as him.’

‘I know that, ya dafty,’ Eric replied. ‘But I’m no’ gonna shout, “Hey, guy in a Santa suit!”’

Darren and Eric had been friends for years. Every Christmas, they had a day out shopping followed by a few beers.

‘I’m done,’ Eric said. ‘I’m off home. It’s Christmas Eve and my maw will be gettin’ worried. Plus, I’ve probably had too much.’

Darren laughed. ‘Okay, lightweight.’

Eric got in, said hi to his mum, then went straight to bed and crashed out.

The noise was deafening.

Eric jumped up and ran into the living room. The Christmas tree was all over the place, toppled over. Santa Claus was sprawled at the bottom of it, on top of Eric’s maw.

‘Maw! Maw! Who is this?’

‘Well,’ she laughed, ‘it’s not Santa Claus.

Story 2

The silence after the TV was switched off was always the worst part.

Clara had taken to leaving Radio 4 on for the dog, a low murmur of politics and play reviews that filled the empty spaces. She was cleaning out the cupboard under the stairs, a job postponed for years, when she found the shoebox.

It wasn’t hers. It was labelled in her late husband’s tight, pragmatic script: *For the Noise*.

Inside, carefully packed, was a collection of mundane things. A brittle railway timetable from 2003. A smooth, grey pebble from Bridlington. Three identical, unused biros from a long-defunct insurance firm. And a single, small brass bell, like one from a child’s bike.

Clara sat on the hallway floor, the objects arranged around her. She understood the timetable, the pebble—souvenirs. The pens were a joke only he’d get. But the bell?

On a whim, she picked it up and shook it gently.

It didn’t make a sound.

She shook it harder. Nothing. It was a solid, silent piece of metal. She put it to her ear and shook it again, listening for the faintest tick. Still nothing.

*For the Noise.*

It wasn’t a box of memorabilia. It was a toolkit. These were the objects he used to quiet the thoughts in his own head. The silent bell was the most important one. A thing that promised a sound, a distraction, a signal, but offered only its own weight. A perfect, private silence.

Clara placed the bell on the mantelpiece. Now, when the Radio 4 play ended and the sudden quiet rushed in, she didn’t turn the volume up. She just looked at the bell, and the quiet felt different. Not empty, but full of a meaning she was just starting to hear.

Story3

It was a wet and windy evening in Glasgow. Bella walked past the Barrowland after visiting the Christmas markets.

The rain came down fast, the wind sticking her hair to her face. She held her coat tighter, trying to ignore the cold.

People ran for shelter, but some still braved the food stalls and rides. The smell of roasted potatoes and hot chocolate hung in the damp air. Music from a nearby waltzer played over the wind.

A man walked behind her. At first, she thought nothing of it. He was probably just heading the same way.

But she began to notice. When she crossed the road, he crossed. When she turned a corner, he turned.

She walked faster, splashing through puddles, the rain soaking through. The streets grew quieter. The market lights faded behind her.

The man matched her pace.

Bella’s heart pounded. She gripped her phone, wishing she wasn’t alone. She didn’t look back. She just kept moving, hoping it was all in her head.

But it wasn’t.

He was still there.

Story 4

George was retiring next week.

The school, where he had been the janitor, had been good for him. Since his Gertie had passed, it was what kept him going. But recently, things had changed. The new headmaster’s demands were, to George, unacceptable.

On his last day, George decided to go out with a bang. He needed a gun.

He met Paul at the store. They had arranged it quickly. Paul told him it was not loaded and he would have to deal with that himself. George would have no problem with that. In fact, the reason he needed this gun was because he had lost his last one.

The kids would be in the assembly hall when he returned. He went in the side door as usual. No security check needed. “It’s only George.”

He went to the hall, walked in, and pulled out the gun.

Everyone cheered.

The sign above the stage said ‘GOOD LUCK GE’. The rest had fallen down.

George had to go and get the glue gun to fix it. He laughed that his final job was to repair his own farewell sign. As he added the ‘ORGE’, everyone clapped.

He stood back, teachers and children and the headmaster all patting his shoulders, looking at his last piece of work.

‘GOOD LUCK GEORGE’

Story 5

‘This meal is divine’ said Charlie

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ Marion replied. ‘I’ve been planning it all week.’

They had started with soup—a beautiful broth with the bone left in the bowl, so the meat would just fall off when lifted out.

Charlie loved the theatre of it all. The main dish was a gorgeous piece of beef, tenderised to perfection and served with shallots, new potatoes, a homemade *jus* from the beef drippings, and rustic bread.

Marion had excelled herself. It was all topped off by a gorgeous strawberry mess.

Charlie finished, then enquired, “So, what’s the occasion?”

“Well,” said Marion, “it’s about time I asked you to marry me.”

“I’ll have to clear it with Mother,” Charlie said. “You know I can’t just up and leave her, not with her condition.”

“It’s okay,” Marion replied. “She’s fine with it.” She pointed to the discarded bones from the soup.

Click to reveal the answer

Story 2 was ai, thanks for playing

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