Sarnia de la Maré - Author | Technologist

Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts

Monday, September 8, 2025

'The Fitting' A Short Story by Sarnia de la Mare Tale Teller Club Audiobook Modern Fiction

“The Fitting” is a darkly comic short story about vanity, reinvention, and the voice inside your head that just won’t shut up. Steve’s new hairpiece promises him youth and sex appeal — but Ego has other plans.

“A surreal illustration of a man staring at himself in a mirror, a wig or hairpiece lying crumpled on the floor, a small cartoonish figure (Ego) perched on his shoulder whispering insults, dark comedy vibe, slightly exaggerated proportions, painterly style, moody warm lighting, satirical yet stylish.”

'Have you come for a fitting today, Mr. Jones?'

The girl was pretty. All hairdressers are beautiful, thought Steve. But then, everyone under 30 was beautiful, once you reach fifty. The effortless beauty of youth walked the streets unabated for the pleasure of the old.

'Yes, that's right, but please call me Steve.'

Did I blush, he wondered? I bet I did.

'You did, you are a dick, she wouldn't touch you with a bargepole, or a dead salmon.'

The pretty girl told Steve to wait and that his personal hair consultant would be out presently.

'Hello, Steve! So good to see you, let's pop into the fitting studio.' Arabella was glorious. She was all woman, every inch of her beckoned attention. Peachy breasts peeped from a beautician's uniform and lipgloss shone like chrome on her perfect pout.

The salon was modern and swanky. It was polished with LA styling. Not that Steve had ever been to LA. The salon was where your dreams would come true, or so it said in their ad in the Esquire magazine.

'Stop staring, Dickhead, they'll report you for being a pervert.'

Arabella had gone over everything in great detail. Steve was now the proud owner of his very own sexual prowess.

When he arrived home he couldn't stop looking in the mirror. He was so handsome, a man in the prime of his life. The new hairpiece made him look at least ten years younger. Now he just had to get rid of that annoying belly. But, let's face it, he was sure to charm the ladies with his IT salary and new good looks. Besides, he had purchased a corset from the Esquire magazine which promised success in the sex department. Steve was dashing. He had even bought a fancy new car. He knew a girlfriend or two was on the cards. It was inevitable. Hairdressers would be falling at his feet. Maybe he could get one of those Botox nurses. He was still nervous to ask about such procedures at the salon. But there were posters on the walls and Steve had studied them in great detail. Now he was just like the men in the ads with his crisp suits and clean-shaven chin.

I may try a distinguished goatee for that debonaire look, he thought to himself. Perhaps even a moisturiser, now that he had reached the dizzy heights of a desirable bachelor.

After supper, Steve sat down for a Tinder session. He took some selfies ensuring his new hair was displayed with no need for his usual comb over. Then he clicked 'like' on thirty girls' profiles, ensuring they were in their twenties, a size ten, with long hair and clear skin.

Suddenly there was a shrill scream as the toupee landed on the floor.

'What are you trying to do, suffocate me?'

Ego crawled out of the bald patch and sat on Steve's shoulder.

'I thought you would like it!' Steve was aghast. Ego had been quiet all day since the salon visit.

'You look like a dick! People will laugh at you! What have I told you about being a dick?'

Ego was still coughing and spluttering, unable to curb his amusement.

They stared at the crumpled hairpiece on the floor. It was upside down with its rubbery peach lining and stray hairs stuck to the glue.

'This is not who you are, I keep telling you, you are an old git, a has-been who never got laid. Accept it and move on then we can both be happy,' said Ego.

Steve thought for a bit.

'I think you are gaslighting me,' he said. 'You are exercising coercive control. It's not fair.'

'Oh fuck off, dickhead,' said Ego, getting back into the hatch through Steve's bald patch.

Closing the lid he yelled, 'And throw that bloody thing away!'

💇 Creative Analysis of The Fitting

Tone & Style:
This story is witty and wicked — like a cross between a New Yorker short story and a grim little fable. It plays with interior monologue, second-guessing, and anthropomorphized self-criticism (Ego crawling out of the bald patch!) in a way that’s both comic and tragic.

Themes:

Vanity & Modern Masculinity: Steve’s trip to the salon is almost a religious pilgrimage — he emerges reborn, “handsome,” convinced of his new eligibility.
Consumer Dream: The ads, the hairpiece, the car, Tinder — these are all part of a ritual of reinvention, but it’s a shallow one, promising youth and sex appeal as commodities.
Inner Sabotage: Ego is a brilliant character — sarcastic, cruel, and ultimately the voice of Steve’s deepest insecurities. It turns the story into a battle between self-delusion and self-acceptance.
Comedy in Tragedy: The ending is hilariously bleak — Steve’s attempt at transformation is undone not by society but by his own psyche, literally shouting at him to stay small and unloved.

Character Study:
Steve is deeply human: yearning for youth, love, sex, and validation. He’s cringeworthy and sympathetic at the same time. You want him to win, even as you laugh at him.

🎭 Performance Notes

Mood: Satirical but compassionate — the reader should feel amused and a little sad at once.
Voice: Narrate Steve’s internal voice wryly, like a knowing friend.
Ego’s Voice: Give Ego a harsh, raspy, or impatient tone — the comic timing is key.
Ending: Deliver the last line almost cheerfully — “And throw that thing away!” — to leave the listener smiling but unsettled.

Overall Vibe: A tragicomedy about self-image — absurd, relatable, and just a little cruel.

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The Riverbank by Sarnia de la Maré #shorts #shortstory

✍️

“The Riverbank” is a gothic family story of resentment, revelation, and reconciliation. A narrator discovers the hidden tragedy of Great Aunt Katherine’s youth — and with it, a new tenderness that bridges the gap between past and present.

“Cinematic video of a quiet riverbank glade, bluebells swaying in a soft breeze, golden light filtering through tall trees, birdsong ambience, slow panning motion as if exploring the glade — peaceful but with an undercurrent of melancholy, 10 seconds, 16:9”

Great Aunt Katherine had been seemingly on her last legs for about thirty years. Since I could remember she had been shrinking and creaking and swaying in the wind. Finally, she was gone and was currently residing in a casket for public viewing before burial later in the day.
We had never gotten along.

She was caustic and bitter and complained about everything. She irked me to the core.
None of us liked her and we seldom got in touch. Mum had fallen out with her years back and the connections rusted and corroded like old batteries. Damage had been done with emotional weaponry and unrepentant intent.

But in death people rally together to do their duty and triumphantly, one hopes, they ignore the fallout from the battleground.

The undertaker had worked a treat. Great Aunt’s hair was spruced and pompadoured like a grand poodle and someone had done a great job on her makeup. In repose, I thought I saw in her some beauty. I had never seen it before in her. How, I wondered, had I not seen it before? Perhaps then, it had been the light.

It was stuffy and death makes me nauseous so I took myself off for some air in the Lancashire sun.

The Riverbank

The grounds of the estate were rambling and pretty, cared for by a team of gardeners and gamekeepers. I followed a winding road, then a desire path through an accidental arch of higher foliage. Birds sang and I noticed the accidental grace of an untouched place.

‘You wanna be careful down there luv,’ said a man with a thick accident and clobber befitting a man who works on the land.

‘Oh, where does it go, this path?’ I asked.

‘Just by the riverside, it’s dangerous if you lose your footing; and don’t be tempted to swim in it, there’s wild currents, people ‘av drowned.’

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘I’ll be careful’.
‘Make sure you are, shout if there’s a bother’.

I objected to be being told and marched arrogantly on.

The riverside was a reedy unkempt place and the water seemed almost still. I doubted anyone had drowned there. I followed the bank upstream for some minutes and saw a beautiful glade just inland covered in bluebells. The blue-purple velvet tones in the late sun were breathtaking and I stopped to take a photograph on my phone.

I misjudged the bank and as I stepped back, cascaded down the steep slope, twisting my ankle as I landed with little room to spare before the water’s edge. It was a close shave. I would probably have to eat humble pie after all.

I stroked my foot; it was sore and I assumed I had twisted it. Reluctantly I called for help without trying to sound panicked.

Something had stabbed on my way down, something sharp. I was bleeding quite badly from my thigh.

I looked up the bank amongst the flattened grasses and saw something. It shimmered in the sun’s rays.

A bellowing voice broke the silence.
‘Are you alright? I told you to be careful din I?’

It was the gamekeeper doing his job, thank goodness.
‘I was trying to take a photograph,’ I explained feebly. ‘I hurt my ankle’.

‘Stay put, if you think you can follow a simple instruction. I will get my car and the first aid kit.’

The gamekeeper muttered several gripes and made his way to prepare for an overly dramatic rescue mission.

I waited as instructed and looked at the shiny object, it was a large red and gold brooch with an open bent pin. I must have stabbed myself as I tumbled down the verge.
It was tarnished and dirty but I could see it was gold. The stone looked like ruby, but I cannot profess to be an expert. It wasn’t paste, that much I knew. It was big and I was pleased to have found it immediately wondering if it was worth anything.

I began to polish it on my skirt, breathing hard on it and trying to remove the muck. As I did so I could see a small clasp and a hinge.

I tried to prize it open but it seemed to be stuck. After some brute force, the clasp was released.

Inside was like a locket, squared off. There were two photographs. One side, a picture of a young woman, a beautiful young woman and a young man with dark eyes. The woman’s hair was mounted in pompadour fashion on her proud dignified face. They were lovers, you could tell.

The other was a picture of an infant in swaddling clothes.

I tried to take out the photos but the baby picture was stuck fast. The other came out easily and inscribed on the reverse in tiny handwriting was my great aunt’s name, Katherine Baltimore and a date, 1938.

I looked again at the beautiful woman in the photograph and there I saw her as I have never seen her before.

‘Alright, old tight!’ shouted the gamekeeper.

The rescue mission passed off with ease and we trundled along the road towards the house in a four by four that looked and smelled like things were growing in it.

‘How long have you worked here?’ I asked.
‘Nigh on sixty years,’ said the gamekeeper.
‘Did my Aunt ever marry?’

‘No no, she was broken-hearted as a young girl, so they say. Had a love, apparently, died in the river there. I told you dint I?....don’t get close to the river, it has a jinx it does, I’m tellin’ ya, and your ma’ld never forgive me should out ‘appen.’

We arrived at the house to a general fuss about the state of my health and I was taken to be ‘fixed up.’

Mum was not pleased and came to my room to reprimand me in that maternal way mums do.

‘Why did you go to the riverside? People have drowned there!’ she exclaimed.
‘I wish people would stop telling me that’ I said in disgruntled fashion, ‘and who was it, Great Aunt Katherine’s boyfriend? I can’t believe she ever had one, looked like she hadn’t ever been laid with that scowl.’

‘That’s unkind,’ said mum.

‘Oh yeah sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But she was such a bitch.’
Mum sat down on the bed next to me.

‘Well, I may as well tell you, it won’t do any damage now, I suppose.
Your Great Aunt was such a rebel. She had this red hair. My great-grandma used to say it was the hair was the problem. There was a boy here, employed. He was rough, son of the gamekeeper who rescued you.’

I raised my internal eyebrows at the word rescue but listened intently.
‘My great-grandma knew he was going to cause trouble because he had those eyes.’
‘What eyes?’ I asked

‘Ones that make you want to lie down and take your clothes off, that’s what eyes.’
‘Oh. Those eyes......’ I said, knowingly.

‘Well,’ mum continued, ‘they struck up a very intense relationship but it was never going to work. Everyone was up in arms about it. They were different people, different classes, different upbringings. Those eyes were not going to solve the problem.’

‘So, what happened? I asked, desperate now for the full story.

‘Well, your Great Aunt ended the affair but he took it badly. They say he jumped off the bridge upstream where the two rivers meet and his body was washed up here, by the bluebell glade. He had been drinking, no one really knew what had happened.’

‘But she had a baby,’ I said.

‘Yes, how did you know? It was stillborn. At the time it was all for the best.’

I went downstairs to look at the coffin and say farewell to a great aunt who had felt such pain and loss. I looked at her face embraced in the sumptuous cream satin. Great Aunt Katherine looked content, different from when I had seen her this morning. I wondered if she would have wanted me to keep the brooch and considered its value. But I knew that that would be wrong.

She would want to be reunited with her baby and her love with the lay-down eyes.

I put the brooch on her lapel and kissed her forehead. Then I apologized and said farewell.

© 2019 Sarnia de la Maré FRSA

🌳 Creative Analysis of The Riverbank

Tone & Structure:
The story begins with biting humor — the narrator’s irreverence toward Great Aunt Katherine makes the opening vivid and slightly wicked. But as the setting shifts from the suffocating viewing room to the estate grounds, the story deepens: the narrator moves from judgement to discovery, from the living’s bitterness to the dead’s secret life.

The Riverbank as Threshold:
The riverbank is the perfect liminal space — half-safe, half-dangerous, beautiful yet treacherous. It mirrors the aunt’s own story: the secret affair, the tragedy, the stillborn baby. The fall on the riverbank is almost ritualistic — a physical initiation that allows the narrator to literally bleed into the family history and uncover the brooch.

Symbolism:

The Brooch: The red and gold object is almost talismanic, piercing the narrator before revealing Katherine’s hidden truth.
Bluebells: Symbols of humility, grief, and constancy — they frame the site of the lost lover’s death.
The River: A site of danger, cleansing, and memory — the family’s pain still flows there.

Character Arc:
The narrator starts dismissive (“she was such a bitch”) but ends tender, apologizing to Katherine, returning the brooch, and reuniting her with the past she loved. The story is ultimately about reconciliation — between generations, between judgment and empathy, between life and death.

🎭 Performance & Reading Notes

Mood: Start dry and ironic, then let it soften and slow as the story turns reflective.
Voice: Use a conversational tone at first (“We had never got along…”), a slightly dramatic hush for the riverbank fall, and then a warm, intimate tone for the coffin scene.
Pacing: Build tension at the fall — quicken slightly — then slow dramatically for the discovery of the brooch and the family revelations.
Ending: Deliver the last paragraph gently, like a benediction — the kiss on the forehead is the emotional release.

Overall Vibe: A gothic family drama with a redemptive ending.

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Friday, July 18, 2025

Tale Teller Club™ Recent Episodes, Links to Audiobook Versions of Short Stories by Sarnia de la Mare July 2025

Tale Teller Club™
Episodes & Posts

The Case of the Parma Violets A Ginny Greaves Short by Sarnia de la Mare

Grease and Eyeliner, A Mills and Swoon Short by Sarnia de la Mare for Tale Teller Club

🎛️ The History of Synthwave: Neon Dreams and Retro Machines By Rife Vibes Music Therapy

🎬 The Tale Teller Club Unleashed: Where Band Meets Machine New Media New Entertainment

Strata 23: Convergence, Book of Immersion Volume 2 by Sarnia de la Mare

Ginny Greaves: The Case of the Disappearing Demeanour by Sarnia de la Mare

A Tart Affair in the Riviera A Mills and Swoon comedy romance short by Sarnia

The Dilemma of the Disappearing Derrière A Mills and Swoon short by Sarnia

The Art of Falling, Elegantly, A Mills and Swoon Comedy Romance Short Story by Sarnia

Private Investigator Ginny Greaves, a lipstick lesbian who never mixes business and pleasure

Homoteching with the Homotechs with iServalan, Flex, Vapour Punk and friends

Best 10 Sci-Fi Books now on the internet and beyond 2025 and why they are so great

Strata 22 Book of Immersion 'Mother"' by Sarnia de la Mare Fiction Sci-fi Adventure

Strata 21: Love and Loss Book of Immersion V2 by Sarnia de la Mare #scifi #audiobook

Three Flat Whites by Sarnia de la Mare, a Mills and Swoon Short Romance Story

“The Case of the Vanishing Violinist” Ginny Greaves is on the case #crime #short

Mills and Swoon™ Shorts Story The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction by Sarnia de la Mare

Plus-One Problems: A Risqué Fake Dating Romance at a Hen Do – A Mills and Swoon Short

Beneath the Amber Moon: A Droll and Steamy Seaside Love Triangle – A Mills and Swoon

The Olive Grove Agreement: A Hot and Hilarious French Villa Romance – A Mills and Swoon Short

Tuesday, July 8, 2025

Ginny Greaves in: The Case of the Brotherly Love Band

Private Investigator Ginny Greaves, a lipstick lesbian who never mixes business and pleasure

The Brotherly Love Band

It was ten past gin o’clock on a Thursday and I was two bills behind rent when trouble swanned into my office in designer heels and a moral compass that pointed directly to the gutter.

She had diamonds on her ears, guilt in her eyes, and the kind of pout that suggested she kissed too much or too often, or probably both.

“You’re Ginny Greaves,” she said, like she wasn’t impressed but was willing to pretend if I solved the case.

“That’s what the door says, unless someone’s replaced the lettering with ‘Ask Me About My Childhood Trauma.’” I leaned back in my chair and gestured to the seat opposite. “What’s missing, sweetheart? Husband? Poodle? Self-respect?”

I watched her hips as they tried to hypnotise me, but I wasn'e falling for this broad. Those hips were a warning.

She sat. Crossed her legs like a lethal weapon. Lowered her voice to a scandalous whisper.

“My ring. My wedding ring. A five-carat vintage Asscher cut with a platinum band and a tendency to reflect poor decisions.”

“And I’m guessing this poor decision had biceps and the finest member in Brooklyn when viewed through a scotch glass?”

She winced, "a surname matching my own."

I looked confused, she noticed. She looked at my hob nails and looked confused again.

"Alistair. My husband’s brother. It was a moment of weakness. A spiritual lapse. A massage with benefits. I should never drink at lunchtime.”

“Spare me the gospel according to Chardonnay,” I said, stubbing out a cigarette I hadn’t lit. “Where was the last known sighting of the matrimonial ice?”

“Alistair’s flat. I think it… slipped off. During... proceedings.”

“Slipped off landing gently on the bedclothes, or flung across the room in a frenzy of Roman shame?”

She gave me the look of a woman who had indeed flung, and not just this one time.

“I need it back now,” she said. “He’s already asking why I’m wearing gloves indoors.”

“And the rate?”

“Double.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Double rate, double speed. I assume you’re paying in cash and discretion.”

She tossed a wad of notes on my desk like a woman throwing booties at a baby shower.

“Find the ring. Before Henry finds Alistair, I beg you.”

Alistair answered the door wearing a robe and holding a glass of moonshine that was 80% proof and 20% hope.

He lived in a flat that screamed divorced and delusional. Black leather couch, mood lighting, mirrored ceiling and a jacuzzi.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Miss Greaves,” he said, smiling like a man with far too many secrets and not enough throw pillows.

“Cut the charm, lover boy. I’m here on behalf of your sister-in-law.”

“Which one?”

“The one you defiled during Tuesday brunch.”

He gestured me in. “We may have been a little… enthusiastic. Things were flung. Garments. Morals. Possibly jewellery.”

I surveyed the place like a truffle pig with boundary issues.

There. Glinting beneath the glass coffee table. Wedged between a dog-eared Kama Sutra and a coaster shaped like a pineapple.

I retrieved it with my pen. Five carats of sexual curiosity, still gleaming with the faint aura of doggy style.

“You’re lucky I’m not the judging type,” I said.

“I’m lucky you’re not armed.”

“I am,” I muttered. "In several places."

I met the client at the usual place — the alley behind a vegan café where good food goes to die.

She clutched the ring like it was a baby and she’d just remembered the custody hearing.

“Oh thank God,” she said. “You’ve saved me. My marriage. Possibly my villa in Tuscany.”

I took the rest of my fee, lit a fresh cigarette, and watched her teeter off into the mist like a Chanel-scented war criminal.

Back in my office, I poured myself something brown and unforgiving and added another file to the cabinet marked Infidelity & Idiots.

Some days you chase down murderers.
Other days, you fish wedding rings out from under furniture that still smells of elderflower lubricant and inherited trauma.

But a win’s a win.

And Ginny Greaves, Private Eye, always gets her woman.

Unless, of course, she’s already married to someone else.

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