[{"id":3226,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/an-autumn-love-story-told-in-the-last-days-of-summer\/","name":"an-autumn-love-story-told-in-the-last-days-of-summer","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/pexels-photo-1274220.jpeg?fit=1880%2C1254&ssl=1","alt":"woman standing outdoor holding smartphone"},"title":"An Autumn Love Story, Told in The Last Days of Summer","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jul 26, 2025","dateGMT":"2025-07-26 10:42:04","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:56:40","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:56:40","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/short-story-collections\/thenewsletter\/\" rel=\"category tag\">The Newsletter<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/short-story-collections\/thenewsletter\/\" rel=\"category tag\">The Newsletter<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":7,"sec":0},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":3120,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/lucid-a-very-short-story\/","name":"lucid-a-very-short-story","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/1_2OJ7AE8076R7_SQgnOebTQ.jpeg?fit=1400%2C933&ssl=1","alt":""},"title":"Lucid [A Very Short Story]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 24, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-24 14:04:14","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:54:10","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:54:10","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":10,"sec":55},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":3117,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/lifes-adventure-a-short-reminiscence\/","name":"lifes-adventure-a-short-reminiscence","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/pexels-photo-571249.jpeg?fit=1880%2C1253&ssl=1","alt":"brown metal playground during golden hour"},"title":"Life's Adventure [A Short Reminiscence]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 24, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-24 14:04:03","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:52:33","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:52:33","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/reminiscence\/' rel='post_tag'>reminiscence<\/a><a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":7,"sec":3},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":3113,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/summer-sun-winter-sun-a-very-short-story\/","name":"summer-sun-winter-sun-a-very-short-story","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/1_XIGYtRPqtIeGoMmomtz5tg.jpeg?fit=1400%2C933&ssl=1","alt":""},"title":"Summer Sun, Winter Sun [A Very Short Story]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 21, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-21 21:01:58","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:51:29","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:51:29","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":6,"sec":44},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":2499,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/the-little-things\/","name":"the-little-things","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/1_jYhSDjGQ6XsRsSwXB4Rj1A.jpeg?fit=1400%2C933&ssl=1","alt":""},"title":"The Little Things","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 20, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-20 14:54:55","modifiedDate":"2024-01-21 21:59:26","modifiedDateGMT":"2024-01-21 21:59:26","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"open","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":7,"sec":0},"status":"publish","excerpt":"The memories that persist are sometimes not the memories you would expect to. They are not necessarily the life changing moments that dwell in the back of your mind, sometimes they are the little things, things that seem small when examined, inconsequential, but they weigh enough to break the strongest back.\tOne moment I find myself drawn back to again and again is one such memory, a little thing that should have been easily forgotten, but persists and haunts even to the point where genuine misdemeanours could be forgotten behind its shadow.\tI was born on a winter’s day in 1970 to a mother who was little more than a child herself. When she should have been contemplating her life, a child was growing inside of her that would eventually dictate it. As – I suppose – all children must to their parents.\tAssuming, of course, that their parents are good ones.\tWhen the child was born, she became an embarrassment, as I suppose the child did as well. They were expelled from the family and the little girl, now a mother, was forced to grow up faster than she should have been.\tI suppose that it’s right that someone must pay for their mistakes, but when that mistake is loving a child enough to bring them into the world in spite of all the negativity surrounding the act, it’s a mistake I’m very willing to forgive.\tOf course, I’m biased.\tExtremely so.\tSo, this little girl worked to raise the money to give her boy a life. Taking work wherever she could, working two or three jobs, or more if she were able. Cleaning houses of a morning, shopwork of an afternoon, only to retire back to her tiny apartment where she worked her fingers raw with needle and thread.\tEventually the family relented and after many trials the little girl was once again back in the fold. I don’t think this made the little girls’ life an idyllic one, as I think a family bond can be as much a burden as a release, but family – as we all know – is family.\tThe baby grew during this time of course. By all accounts, the little boy was a strange child, introspective and sometimes much older than his years. Sometime later his mother told him a tale that illustrates this.\tWhen returning home from work the mother purchased a bag of penny sweets, a mixture, and when she placed them in the boys hands on returning home the little boy threw a tantrum, as they were not to his liking, and the young mother – little more than a child herself remember – had a moment of justifiable anger.\tShe took the bag of sweets from the child and threw them on the back of the fire.\tThen something interesting happened.\tThe child’s tantrum ceased, and she watched the boy’s eyes moved from the burning bag to her face and then back again. Then the child nodded, once, as if acknowledging something, and after that day he never threw another tantrum. An understanding had been forged, one without words. Actions have consequences, sometimes immediate and unchangeable ones. The child learned, and the mother was pleased and more than a little surprised.\tBut this is not the “little thing” of which the title to this piece refers.\tUnfortunately, the “little thing” that weighs on my mind happened much later, when I was still young but old enough to know better, which – I suppose – is why my actions still sting. This tale, in conjunction with the previous one, illustrates something that the boy would not learn for a few more years still. Even though as a child he was already a living example of it, and he grows more of an example with every passing year.To put it plainly, sometimes youth is not foolhardy, and there’s often little wisdom with age.\tIt was 16th November 1984, and it was a Friday. Back in the early 80’s Tuesday was new release day, when new movies would see the shelves of rental stores, so the movie that my mother had rented had only be out three days.\tI can picture it clearly, even though I was oblivious to it all at the time. She must have heard about the release, possibly from someone at work, and had made an infrequent visit to our local video store without my knowing. She had brought the movie home and had waited until I was distracted long enough to slip it into the player and hit the chunky rectangle of plastic marked “play”.\tI can imagine her grinning inside with anticipation, knowing – just knowing – how happy I would be when I saw the name of the movie across the top of the screen as the copyright notice scrolled below, as was the style on videos from CBS\/Fox. She would sit back and watch my utter joy at seeing this movie for the first time, a movie I had not seen on the cinema a few years earlier, even though I had been desperate to.\tOf course, this is how it all happened; right?\tNot quite.\tThis is the “little thing”.\tI had been watching something on TV at the time, well, not really watching it, but it had been on. It couldn’t have been anything important because what it was is the one detail I have never been able to remember. So, when I realised the TV had changed channel I reached forward and hit the button to put it back. Even as I saw the title of the movie fade in and a part of me knew – knew with utter certainty – that I was making a huge mistake, I still hit that button.\tAnd when my mother said to me, “But its Empire Strikes Back”, I turned to her and spat out the words, “I don’t care.”\tI…\tDon’t…\tCare…\tPerhaps you think this is a silly tale, perhaps you don’t see the point of it. Perhaps you think there are such evils in the world that the silly insensitivity of a thirteen-year-old boy isn’t anything to get concerned about. Perhaps you think this is just what you’d expect from a little boy.\tPerhaps you’d be right.\tBut not when that little boy was me, and not when the person I was so insensitive to had once been the little girl who put her very life on hold when she knew I was growing inside her. Not when the first thing she did when she knew she was pregnant was buy a large piggy bank, one made of China and glazed a deep black, so she could save money with which to treat me. Not when her faith and love had never wavered.\tIn this case, those words were a weapon.\tMy regret was instant, though I’m certain I did not show it, and this regret remained.\tI honestly don’t think it ever went away, and if it ever did it didn’t travel far. It has been a constant companion, a strange little shard of self-imposed childhood trauma. Nothing a therapist would see much of a point in treating, nothing most could see any toxic value in at all. But it’s my personal poison, concocted specifically for my DNA.\tI sometimes think I should speak to my mother about it, apologise to her, but I knew what she would say. “It’s nothing Alan,” she would smile – perhaps even laugh – and continue, “it doesn’t matter.”\tShe would not do this to dismiss my feelings, she would do it because she wouldn’t understand the depth of them. She knows she doesn’t understand me as she would wish to, and to her great credit she has never pretended to. She would say this because, to her, it would be nothing, it was one small cruelty in a lifetime of small, and not so small, cruelties.\tBut it does matter, it may be a little thing, no larger than the needles she used so skilfully all those years. Little, like those needles that would litter the floor of her workshop at home, tiny shards of metal that may draw blood, but could do no lasting damage. But to me, the memory is like a needle in my blood, just waiting to stab me in the heart.\n      \n      posted by Alan  Preece\n      on April, 27"},{"id":2742,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/nothing-but-lies\/","name":"nothing-but-lies","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/4186846_c07ed79d.jpg?fit=640%2C426&ssl=1","alt":"Cattal Train Station"},"title":"Nothing but Lies","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 20, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-20 14:54:55","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:58:03","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:58:03","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"open","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":6,"sec":3},"status":"publish","excerpt":"I learned two important things about lying when I was a child. The first part of which was how to tell a lie well, and perhaps a little on how to spot a lie when it’s told to you. The day this happened was a rare day. It was spring, the air cool but the sun bright, and for some reason - and this is what made it rare - I was alone in the house.I wasn't just alone in the building, with everyone else outside in the garden, which was not that unusual. On this day I was completely alone, and as far as I remember, this only happened twice in the whole time I lived there. Once on the day in question, and one more time for a whole week some years later. One day I might talk about that painful and eventful week, but for today I want to talk about that spring day when I met the old man.Though I had my own TV in my room - as well as the essential VHS recorder - I was in the living room watching movies on this day. It had been a movie I had seen many times before, and I was only half watching, so this was why I saw the man standing with his hand on the wrought iron gate that led to the property.At the time I thought he was old, but it unsettles me now to realise as I write this that he was probably no older than I am today. He was greying around the temples and had a broad belly that did not make me think of slovenliness, but rather of a man who once had muscle that he no longer needed. The term that comes to mind is \"barrel chested\", and he looked over to the house in which I lived with an intensity that I initially found quite concerning.I know now that I should have listened to that feeling, but I was young then, and had the confidence of youth. I the unfounded certainty that nothing bad could happen on this lovely day where not even a cloud deemed to mar the sky.I switched off the movie and went to the door where I saw his shadow in the frosted glass that took up half its length. I opened the door before he knocked, and he stood in surprise with his fist half raised to the thick blue paint of the door.We stood in tableau for a moment, me with an entirely fake smile on my face, while he stood a little like that famous still from Citizen Smith. He realised he held a perfectly useless fist in the air, lowered it, and asked to speak to my grandfather. He was not home, I replied and told him he should return soon. It was just then that I made what could have been a grave error in judgement. Though I knew nothing about the barrel-chested man I asked if he wanted to wait a while, and he agreed.Discomfort was the keyword for the better part of the next hour. I offered tea and then made him some and we sat and made small talk. This was much harder than it might appear. I was in my early teens at this point, and he was fifty if he were a day. My usual topics of conversation being Star Wars and comic books were not suitable, so the conversation moved in curious circles around the uncharacteristically bright sunshine we had been having, with occasional musings on the possibility of a hosepipe ban so early in the year.Scintillating conversation, it was not.We spent half an hour exhausting ways to describe a sky devoid of clouds and I had begun to deeply regret my unusual sociability, but I was nothing if not a polite boy, so I determined not to leave my unusual guest with a poor impression of my grandfathers’ family. After all, by his own admission the man had come a great distance to visit – though he did not disclose from where or for why.Eventually the man said he had to leave and thanked me for my hospitality. I smiled, this time with sincerity – as the man was finally leaving – and I led him to the door. The man paused and asked me to tell my grandfather of his visit, leaving a name that – to my irritation – I have long since forgotten. I watched him walk through the gate and down the hill in the direction of the City Centre, and the train that would take him home, wherever that might be.The house was not empty for long, I suppose it’s a natural law of some kind that someone you have awaited will arrive only moments after you have left, and there was the usual warzone of activity before people settled into their accustomed places. My grandfather is in his chair in the corner of the living room. Within moments the lights on his beloved CB radio lit up and his mic – a candlestick style beauty made of polished chrome – glistened in his broad fist.This is when I told him he had missed a visitor and told him the man’s name.This all happened a long time ago, and memory is a strange beast. Sometimes I wonder how much I remember is not a memory at all. Perhaps they are dreams I had confused with reality. Or tales I had read and incorporated into my own unsatisfying life.I would like to think that this moment was one of those moments, a lie told by a fragmented imagination that I have confused with truth, but I don’t think any of that is true.I think I saw my grandfather's face drain of colour as he said words that made my own blood run cold.“You didn’t let him in did you?”And this is when I learned my first lesson on lying. Lie fast. Lie so fast that you aren’t even aware of the lie on your lips. Lie with such speed that any indication your face betrays is so swift that it escapes the person you are lying to.“Of course not!” I replied, and my mind immediately went to the two cups, washed but still wet on the counter next to the sink.My grandfather stood rigid for a moment, and then let out a long breath.“Who was he, Grandad?”“Nobody, but if you see him again just walk away.”As he answered me, I realised the second rule that day concerning the art of lying. Some people did not know the first rule.I never learned who that old man was, and I never asked. I understood that some things are best left unknown, and some people are best left in the distant… distant past. When I think of that day, I still feel a shiver run the length of my spine, and I am not sure if that shiver is inspired by the man I met, or the knowledge that my grandfather had secrets that he was desperate to bury in his own murky past.\n      \n      posted by Alan  Preece\n      on September, 06"}]