Pothole Commando – short story, about 2000 words.

Rain fell in large splattering drops from vast clouds of greyness, as twilight edged in. Crouched beside the edge of a field with Dennis, an assessment was taking place, discussing exactly how we were going to get beyond the barbed wire fence.  Less than a week before, we’d been sat opposite each other in a crowded cafe, Dennis claiming he’d thought up the whole idea in response to an earlier conversation.

“As they say Danny-boy, if you’re not part of the problem, you’re part of the solution.”

“I think it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

“No matter, same difference.” Dennis’ hands encircled a large-sized cup containing a cappuccino, his thumbs and index fingers met with each other around the rim. An air of relaxed confidence exuded from across the wooden table top as a wide grin spread across his face.

So?” he’d asked, “Are you up for joining me?”

“Joining you in what?”

“You’ve not been listening, have you?”

The honest truth was I’d only been half listening. It was an easy habit to get into when it came to the one-sided conversations experienced with Dennis. In an attempt to redeem myself, I plucked out a single sentence summary.

“You’ve formed a pothole commando unit?

Correct,” this was a close enough answer to what he’d wanted to hear, “aren’t you the one who’s been ranting on about the problem since I-don’t-know-when? So, I have formed the Vigilante Pothole Commando Unit, a.k.a. the VPCU.”

“Shouldn’t that be the VPHCU?”

“Ah, a common mistake amigo!” Dennis took great pleasure with corrections, “Pothole is often thought of as two words and there is no doubt that what we have here in this instance is the coming together of two separate words, originally existing in their own right: pot, and hole. However, let me assure you that in today’s common parlance of speaking, two have become one.”

“Ok Dennis, would I be correct in assuming you are the leader of this new, crack unit?”

“Indeed, you would.”

“Does that make you Captain Pothole?”

* * * *

A few days later, having largely forgotten the conversation, I received an excited phone call from Dennis.

“Mate, we’ve made a connection.”

“A connection?”

“Yes, timely, wouldn’t you say?”

“Dennis, what are you talking about?”

“There’s a group who’ve banded together in an outlying village.”

“Another pothole group?” I said, quickly fiddling with the volume control to compensate for the forceful projection of Dennis’ voice.

More like an identification squad.”

“Identification squad? What do you mean?”

“Well, they’ve gotten so fed up with the potholes in their roads, they go around identifying targets by placing yellow rubber duckies in them.”

“Yellow rubber duckies, you mean, like bath time rubber ducks?”

“That’s right my man!” Dennis paused, allowing me adequate time to process the information. “Now, this Friday evening, you and me, we’re out on our first mission. Our objective, is to clear the whole village of potholes, so when they wake up on Saturday morning, they’ll not know what’s hit them.”

“Clear? As in fill?”

“You’re reading me.”

* * * *

Attempting to pass through a barbed wire fence as the light begins to fade, is not something I am accustomed to, nor something I’d recommend. Several failed tries had already hindered my progress, with the low tension of the highest strung wire making it impossible to maintain balance during a manoeuvre to climb over. A tear in the shoulder of my jacket acquired while trying to pass through the middle section, had forced a reversal in direction. The uncomfortably cold and wet sensation coming through the seat of my jeans, as a result of slipping onto my backside, added to my feelings of disharmony.

With Dennis’ assistance, I finally made it through and we set off together, our footsteps squelching in the wet grass. After walking a short distance, following the perimeter of the field and passing an overgrown outcrop of shrubs, a long wooden gate came into view.

“Dennis! There’s a gate here!” I hiss in exasperation, “We could have just hopped over!”

We continued to tramp through the sodden field, heading – as Dennis put it, to the drop-off rendezvous point. Soon, up ahead I could make out a number of white plastic tubs stacked on top of each other and next to them, several aerosol cans.

There we go!” said Dennis triumphantly, “Our pothole filler supplies.”

“Where the heck did you get these?” I asked.

“Brian at the builder’s merchants, he had a few going spare that wouldn’t be missed, said he’d drop them off after work. We owe him a few pints mind, but he said he was glad to be of assistance. He’s as sick of potholes as everyone else, wished us good luck!”

* * * *

By the time we had entered the village, darkness had settled in. I could see Dennis’ silhouette a short distance in front of me, as we walked in short steps at a quickened pace. With aerosol cans wedged up under our arms and a white tub held in each hand, it wasn’t long before we came upon our first yellow rubber duck.  Half filled with water, the dimensions of the pothole were similar to those of a family-sized frying pan.

Dropping the cans and tubs, Dennis swung the rucksack from off his back onto the road and unzipped the opening. Out of it, he retrieved a large scrubbing-brush and a metal rod, which when twisted extended, until it stood from the ground up to his waist. Squatting down with the rod resting across his knees, he rooted around in the rucksack, before lifting out a flat, square-shaped piece of iron with a fitting on one side, into which Dennis slid one end of the pole. A hard twist of his hand followed by a reassuring sound, confirmed construction of the implement was complete.

“Alright compadre? Let’s get this one cleaned out.” Dennis said, his voice spoken in an unfamiliar whisper. Often feeling inadequate with manual tasks, I was keen to take this encouragement as an instruction.  Grabbing hold of the brush, I began clearing out the water, dirt and grit from the pothole. The bright pink washing-up gloves I’d hesitated to pack, were now proving useful, providing a degree of both warmth and protection. Before long, Dennis rested his hand firmly upon my shoulder.

“Good work, now let the filling, begin.”

Standing back a little, I watched as he held a can in his hand and casually pressed his thumb into the top causing the cap to fly off in a filmic manner. After a good shake, he proceeded to coat the inside of the hole with the spray, finishing off with a thicker application around the edge of the cavity opening. With a tub open, Dennis then began transferring repair compound to the pothole with a garden trowel. Once he had created a small mound, he stopped and looked up at me.

“I think that’ll do her,” he said, winking, “I’ll let you do the honours then.”

The tool Dennis had put together earlier, was thrust into my hands and directions given to indicate the action required. Inspired by my companion, I firmly tamped down the repair compound, continuing until it laid level with the surrounding road surface.

Raising his hand, Dennis indicated for me to stop. He knelt down, brushed away some loose material and applied more spray, sealing between the new and old edges. When complete, we both stood back a little, to admire our handiwork.

“What time is it?” Dennis enquired.


“Twenty one hundred hours?”

“If you like.”

“That took about… 14 minutes from start to finish?” Dennis’ brain was processing a series of different calculations. “From a satellite image sweep of the village I carried out earlier, we have about another thirty to go, by my reckoning – give or take a few.”


“That’s about seven hours work, meaning we’ll be finished somewhere around o-four hundred hours, unless we pick up some pace – which we may well do.”

“Yes, but we also have to find each one of them, you need to factor in the time required to actually locate the rubber ducks.”

“I know,” said Dennis, “I wasn’t going to mention that. Unfortunately, due to expense, night vision goggles aren’t an option so this torch will have to do.”

“And what about breaks?” I continued, “I’ve made sandwiches for us both and brought along a flask of coffee, we’ll need breaks – won’t we?”

“We’ll have two breaks each, which we’ll stagger time-wise so that the work can continue without stopping. What’s in the sandwiches?”

“Corned beef, cucumber and mayonnaise.”

“Perfect, come on, this way!”

Without further discussion, having picked up his rucksack, tool, tubs and cans, Dennis jogged off ahead.

* * * *

By day break, we were done. The village was modest in size and had been built around one long snaking road, from which four minor roads branched off. Working together with military precision and efficiency, we’d made good progress, with the repetitious nature of the operation aiding an increase in our productivity.

The empty tubs of repair compound had now found second lives, as containers for carrying all the displaced yellow rubber ducks. It was imperative we collected them up, Dennis had advised, or we might lose track, becoming confused with what we had done and with what was left to do. I couldn’t argue with the logic and in a way the completion of filling in a pothole was enhanced, by the collection a small trophy each time.

“Dennis, what are we going to do with all these ducks?

“Well d’Artagnan, the final operational stage will involve giving them all a good clean in my dishwasher at home, bagging them up and dropping them off to a charity shop of your choice.”

“You don’t think we should return them to the villagers? In effect, aren’t we stealing them, by taking them away?”

“It’s a fair trade, more than a fair trade.”

“Well, yes, I guess you’re right.”

We headed west out of the village, with the morning sun warming our backs and our elongated shadows stretched out in front of us. Wisps of water vapour rose from the dew covering the field we’d walked through, yesterday evening.

“Are those bullocks over there?” I said, pointing towards a cloud of mist above a herd of cattle in a corner of the field.

“I believe you are correct.” Dennis came to a stop and squinted his eyes in the direction I’d indicated, “Lucky we didn’t stumble on top of one of those in the dark.”

* * * *

In the two days following, I hadn’t given the escapade all that much thought. Only an occasional twinge and a gently fading ache of the muscle groups employed during the event, had evoked any kind of recall. During the evening of the second day, Dennis called me up on the phone, calm and collected as always.

“I’ve just come in halfway through the local TV news and an elected representative of the county council has just been interviewed, standing over one of our accomplishments.”

“Oh really?”

“Saying something about the high level of workmanship and how he expects the people of the village are very pleased with the repairs carried out by the mysterious duo.”

“Oh, we must have been seen by someone then?” I replied, adjusting the volume control down on the handset, as was customary when Dennis rang.

“Dog-walker probably. Even so, they don’t have a description.”

“That’s good then.”

“Mind, an investigative reporter has tied the event in with a donation made to a charity shop in town. They’ve shown a few fuzzy black and white CCTV images in the report, but don’t worry, I wore clothes I’ll never wear again and had a baseball cap on, pulled down low.”

“So where next, Dennis?”

“Well, you know what? I feel we’ve done our bit with potholes. Others will follow  precariously in our footsteps I imagine, in time to come. We have planted the seeds of inspiration and I don’t want to get tied down with any specific project. We’ll only end getting caught at some point and I’m not keen on the idea of public interest – to be honest.”

“Sure, I agree Dennis.”

“Yes, upwards and onwards is what I say, we have to keep moving. Are you ready for the next venture, Sundance?”

“Sure Dennis, count me in. What have you got in mind?”


(photo credit: Andy Omvik)

Angelina and Ben, a short story (2,877 words)

The soles of his feet felt sore at each point of contact with the ground and with every step taken. So far, the pain was being transmitted at a sustained, tolerable level of discomfort. However, his pace had begun to slow during the course of the day, with the strong heat of the mid afternoon sun beginning to take its toll. He could feel he was tiring, becoming dehydrated and in certain need of finding a seat to rest a while.

“I need a change of life.” Ben muttered miserably under his breath.

He’d decided he would walk rather than use the underground trains, although stations were located near all the destinations he had planned to visit during his day trip. Conceding some shame for the sense of fear as motivation for his decision, it was nonetheless inescapable; the potential threat of getting caught up in a terrorist attack on an underground train platform, or worse, a moving carriage, to Ben seemed a risk not worth taking. After all, there was no ambiguity, the security level in the city was coded red and this was known and understood. Although many people went about their business and got on with their lives in a normal fashion, as a visitor to the city, Ben had felt touched by a profound sense of caution.

Earlier in the day, having left the coach station, Ben navigated himself to his first destination using a map application on his phone. It’d taken longer to reach than expected, the streets seemed to stretch out further than suggested and his progress had been slow. The gallery visit had been worthwhile; he found the mix of artwork on display appealing, modern, colourful and large in scale.  Wandering through the gallery, he pondered on the themes connecting them. Ben rarely read notes provided at exhibitions.

Afterwards, food was needed. However, a glance at the gallery restaurant’s menu determined the prices were beyond his tight budget. A search ensued to find a cafe where he could afford to eat, without it being quite so much of a strain on his wallet. After an unsatisfactory meal, Ben set off, following the guidance provided by his phone. For the next leg of the journey, he accepted a more realistic expectation of the time it would take to cover the next one and a half miles.

The next stop-off point was a museum, which Ben had found fully satisfying. It’d been busy and crowded with visitors, which he viewed as a minus, but much of what he saw was of interest to him. During the visit, he was busy with taking photos using the camera he’d brought along. Later, he would regret not spending more time here. It wasn’t that he’d missed much out, but the grand scale of the museum meant there was no time to dawdle if he was to make his next destination in good time.

The penultimate stretch of his trip, proved punishing. It was a clear blue sky and the sun was beating down. He’d folded up his light-weight coat and stored this in his shoulder bag, tying his cardigan around his waist. As he walked, a mild burning sensation began to tingle where the strap was rubbing against his shoulder.

Traffic was heavy, with more cars on the road than people walking on the pavements. When coming upon a kiosk selling waffles and hot drinks, Ben decided to take a break. Sat at a table, he felt enveloped by a familiar sense of isolation, watching people and listening to conversations spoken in languages only identifiable to him as not English. He observed, as a holidaying family approached an information noticeboard nearby, the mother and father both studying the map illustration showing the area they now found themselves in. With a son and two daughters in tow, it seemed possible one of the daughters had been the cause of some disharmony, earlier. The father looked angry with her and disinclined to receive the apology, which the daughter was desperately trying to convey.

Folding up the cardboard tray, cup and tissue serviette, dispensing with them in a bin which buzzed from the sound of a dozen wasps, Ben set off again, feeling better from the intake of sugars and liquid. Soon afterwards, it was necessary to navigate crossing the busy road and in what seemed a typical situation for him, the section at which he’d chosen to do this, proved difficult to judge. Cars seemed to sweep around the curve in the road with extra acceleration, as if being propelled by a giant sling-shot. Momentarily drawing on the extra energy he now felt coursing through his blood, Ben jogged across the carriageway, finding himself stood immediately opposite the next destination on his list.

Still recognisable as a small underground railway station, long fallen from the intention of its original design, the gallery stood in isolation from any other buildings. Inside, both the bright lighting and ambient temperature were pleasingly cool; his first impressions of the exhibition however, were considerably less so. While walking through the gallery, his thoughts became preoccupied with the numerous installation pieces featuring discarded items of rubbish. The rhyme and reason for their creation must lay buried deep within the artist’s own subconscious, he’d concluded. Or, perhaps the growing sensations of fatigue were affecting his appreciation. Ben felt an increasing level of impatience and annoyance, rapidly building up inside him. To add to this, he felt absolutely no inclination to find out or understand what meaning might lay in this collection of carefully arranged junk, seemingly gathered from roadside skips and charity shops.

Having completed a successful circumnavigation of the building, Ben was able to exit the gallery through the same door he’d entered. Back outside in the sun, he glimpsed a woodland and park directly ahead. He crossed the busy road again, without incident or any significant expenditure of energy. On reaching the edge of the park, he studied a dark green coloured sign post, containing information to inform visitors of attractions nearby and the route required to reach them. Unfortunately for Ben, none of the destinations noted were where he wanted to go and his limited knowledge of the city meant he didn’t have much of an idea where he was, in relation to anywhere else.

He decided upon simply walking straight ahead, underneath the shade of the trees and into the park. As he did so, a check of his phone revealed an announcement informing him of low battery power. Acknowledging this with a tap of his finger on a touch screen button, he proceeded to quickly absorb the details of his location according to the map. There weren’t many facts he could establish from the device, a few paths were shown on the map and zooming in or out shared the same disadvantage of providing less than adequate information. He exited the map and clicked off the screen to preserve what remaining battery power there was, before returning the phone to the front pocket of his brown chinos.

I’ll use my instinct, he thought to himself. His instinct told him to walk ahead, taking no turnings away from the path.

Few people could be seen in the immediate area visible to Ben. Occasionally, runners were sighted, their approach announced by the sound of gravel crunching and scraping under their feet. They passed by breathing heavily, dark shades of sweat dampening the backs of their t-shirts. There was also a sprinkling of people walking dogs. Owners and pets in different shapes and sizes strolled past, the owners usually deep in thought, while the dogs seemed unfettered and carefree.

Shortly, an iron framed, wooden seated bench located underneath the shade of several trees, came into view. Although split off onto a smaller path, Ben could see how to re-join the main route by cutting across the grass and through a thin line of shrubs and trees. He carefully calculated a return to the original path, so as to encounter minimal deviation and avoid the need to retrace his steps.

Sat on the park bench, Ben laid his shoulder bag across his lap and retrieved his camera. Switching on the back screen, he browsed through the images taken in the museum and art gallery. Some of the photos were taken outside too, but he’d not felt brave enough to get up close to people. Nearly all the images showed only the backs of people, certain evidence of the surreptitious method he couldn’t avoid when feeling small and too much in himself.

How do people succeed with street photography, he wondered, gazing skywards, could it be a carefree, confident attitude, buckets full of charm, would it be easier if I was better looking and had a pleasant, engaging smile?

Everything in life would be easier, he concluded, if I was better looking, confident and wore a pleasant, engaging smile.

The peripheral vision of his left eye was caught by a slight movement and Ben was brought out of his thoughts by the awareness of somebody sitting down, on the bench next to him. By his estimations, the approximate distance of an arm’s length lay between them. By reflex, his reaction was to steal a furtive glance, combined skilfully with the motion of returning the camera back into the bag.

The amount of detail the brain can process from the information gleaned in a hurried look lasting little more than a second, is truly astounding. Ben’s brain had quickly assembled several facts he knew to be true. This was a woman sat near him, a young woman aged in her early thirties. She wore her blonde hair short, was of a fair complexion, while her bright blue eyes sparkled behind oval-shaped glasses in tortoiseshell coloured frames. Her clothes were casual, with Ben able to ascertain she was wearing a light grey t-shirt and dark grey, three-quarter length leggings, loose-fitting and turned-up at the hem. With her hands laid flat on the seat of the bench, she’d straightened her legs out in front of her, displaying white, lace-topped ankle socks and classic tanned leather sandal shoes complete with buckles. With the details absorbed, an involuntary blink returned Ben’s scrutiny to the inside of his shoulder bag.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Both the accent and the wording of the greeting informed Ben the young woman was an American. Many years ago, while Ben was still at secondary school, a new boy had joined one of his science classes. Angus had been brought up in America, his parents emigrating from Scotland when he was just two years old. Fourteen years later, they moved to England and Angus – dropping a school year and therefore appearing in Ben’s classes, sounded about as American as you could get.

“Hey, what’s up Ben” was his customary greeting.

Initially, Ben had found this greeting confusing; despite being an avid watcher of American import TV shows, he’d never heard it before. To Ben, it sounded like a question seeming to assume something was up, that something was wrong. Initially, it would draw a frown onto Ben’s face, as he’d look up from the doodling he was adding to the cover of an exercise book.

“What do you mean what’s up? Nothing is up.” Ben would reply.

Periodically, people would ask Ben why he often looked miserable and he was occasionally assured sarcastically by passers-by in the street that it might not actually happen. Due to these experiences, Angus’ enquiry irked Ben. That is, until Angus explained the meaning as something akin to what’s happening? Or, to rephrase in a more English manner, how are you doing? Although he couldn’t bring himself to adopt the phrase, once the understanding had been reached, Ben came to find he quite liked hearing it.

Angus wasn’t popular at school. The kids disliked him, just for being an American. He was a tall lad, middle-class, sensible and intelligent, not qualities appreciated by the rough lads in the same school year. However, Ben liked Angus.

Angus liked the music of The Clash, as did Ben, although he complained of seeing them play live in America with a poor sound system accompanying their performance. Even so, he found Angus likeable and interesting, providing him with a unique insight into a culture he was only familiar with from television, film and books.

Based on this experience, Ben was unusually prepared to receive this particular, transatlantic style of greeting.


Hello?” the young woman repeated, with raised intonation balanced somewhere in the middle of her pronunciation, “Edison’s greeting?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“The advent of the telephone,” she continued, with a sense of confidence in her tone, “at the start, no one knew what to say after they picked up the receiver. They just weren’t used to talking to people, while not seeing them. It seems ‘Hello’ was adopted around then, as an initial greeting used when answering the phone. Alexander Graham Bell wanted ‘Ahoy’ while his rival Thomas Edison suggested ‘Hello’. Usage spread into everyday life and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“That is an amazing story.” Ben said, genuinely amused.

“It is. I only recently learnt this on the interweb.”

Interweb? Thought Ben, a bemused look indicating puzzlement flickered across his face.

“It’s customary to exchange names isn’t it, after a greeting?” Allowing a pause to follow the question, she continued “I’m Angelina, but not named after the actress, I think she was about 11 years old when I was born and had not yet established her film career. Do you live here?”


“No, not here, I don’t imagine you live in a park. Or do you? What’s your name?” Angelina enquired.

“I’m Ben.”

“Ben?” Angelina stroked her index finger across her chin and raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t live here in the park, or even in this city.”

“Oh, where do you live then, Ben? Not your full address, you understand, just an approximation of where you live?”

“Hah! No, that would be strange to give out my full address to someone I’ve just met.”

“You’ve never done that before, Ben?”

“Hah! Well, no, although maybe to a policeman once or twice before, possibly.”

“Oh, you’ve been in trouble with the police?” Angelina cut in quickly, with a mock look of shock across her face.

“Hah! No, well not really, I think it was for speeding. It was a long time ago, years and years back.”

Adopting a whisper, Angelina stared into Ben’s eyes. “Could you please stop repeating ‘Hah at the beginning of a sentence?” She paused, allowing adequate time for the request to be processed and then continued, “So Ben, where do you live?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not aware I’m even doing that!” Ben made a mental note of the first question and then turned his attention to the second. “Well, I live in the next city along from here,” he jutted his thumb in the air indicating a wildly inaccurate direction, “it’s a university town.”

“Oh, I love university towns! Full of students wobbling around on bicycles they haven’t ridden on since they were twelve years old!”

“Hah! Yes, that’s about right,” said Ben, forgetting himself, “sorry, I really don’t know why that keeps popping out.”

“Why what keeps popping out Ben? What are you trying to tell me?”

Ignoring her questions, Ben pitched his own. “Whereabouts in North America do you come from, Angelina?”

That’s a very diplomatic way of phrasing your question Ben, I’m impressed!” Angelina displayed an admiring look upon her face. “You’re not a gambling man are you Ben? I might be from Texas, California or Alabama maybe, or someplace up there in Canada? You can’t be sure, can you Ben?”

“This is true,” Ben smiled, “I have trouble accurately placing people based upon their accent, even if they are English.”

“That’s alright, I admire a kind of blindness towards categorisation,” Angelina smiled back at Ben, “and we probably now know enough about each other sufficient for a life-time.” Her gaze slowly shifted away and she gave a short sigh as she looked at the ground in front of her.

“Ben,” she turned her face back towards him to be sure of his attention before continuing, “let’s spend the rest of the afternoon together, let’s spend the night together, stay up all night and in the morning look forward to the rest of our lives together.

“What do you think, without any doubt in your heart, could you commit to us forevermore?” Angelina touched the top of his hand, her two fingers shaped like ice-skater’s legs spinning small circles upon his skin. “You know there is no room for doubt, no questions and no answers, only true acceptance of what is. Whatever has come before has no place here now, Ben. What this is only happens once in a lifetime and rarely happens for most other people. Our experience of love is of you and me becoming one and also remaining two at the same time. You understand me, don’t you?”

In his mind, he was anticipating a verbal stumble over the words contained within his reply. He could see his face reflected in Angelina’s glasses and behind the image, those sky-blue coloured irises of her eyes.

“Yes, I do.”