Short story winners
Sally Curtis is a primary school teacher from Poole, and a qualified hypnotherapist who likes to dabble in a bit of tarot for friends. She began writing short stories as a kickstart to finishing the pile of started novels, but liked the form so much that the novels remain uncompleted. She wrote Doreen in the hope of putting a smile on people’s faces, thinking we could all do with a laugh. This is her first ever win.
Doreen was an exotic dancer at the Melrose Home for the Elderly. She performed Tuesdays and Thursdays after tea, with a matinee every third Saturday. She couldn’t manage more as, along with her grumbling varicose veins giving her an unsightly lumpy left leg, her muscles were beginning to complain under the growing strain.
Today, however, was a special occasion as Colonel Stansfield, the new octogenarian on the block, would be amongst the audience, so Doreen attached her most sparkly tassels to her nipples, which seemed to have slipped further down her breasts again, and sat down to put on her thong. Joan said that sitting to put on your knickers was another step towards decline, but Doreen ignored her. Although they shared a room, they were not friends due to Joan’s excessively competitive nature.
Last year, having noticed a pole supporting the false ceiling in the day-room, Doreen had thankfully switched from lap-dancing to the discipline of the pole. She hadn’t needed many secretive night-time practice sessions as her years in the fire brigade had prepared her well; she could have been a professional except that the only thing her audience poked down her drawers were their prescriptions and unfinished crossword puzzles.
Lately though, the moves heightened her vertigo as she rotated through the kaleidoscopic gummy grins of Albert, Tommy and Mavis, before finishing with Harry’s full set of glinting dentures reflecting in the disco ball. More often than not, she was knackered before the song ended and her slut-drop resembled an imitation of someone having a partial stroke. So, this was not only her swan-song but the chance to nab her man before Joan got in there – again.
Private Dancer blared from the cassette player as Doreen grape-vined across the parquet flooring. She spotted the Colonel instantly but next to him sat a simpering Joan, her blouse unbuttoned, proudly displaying her new pushup bra over her vest.
Doreen seamlessly leapt into the flamingo pose and then transitioned into a scissor sit. In retaliation,
Joan slid down her compression stockings and then rearranged her meagre bosoms but Doreen reacted instantly with a twisted back-hook spin. It was at that moment that Joan deftly pulled half a cheese-andcucumber sandwich from her sewing bag and tossed it at the foot of the pole. As Doreen spun back, her heel caught the crust and the sole of her left Hush Puppy slid through the thin grey bread making contact with the layers of yellow margarine and wet filling. Losing her grip on the pole, her first thought was for her hip, reinforced by the horrified, triple Os of Albert, Tommy and Mavis’ toothless mouths.
Suddenly, strong arms lowered her to the floor and, expecting the face of the Colonel, she was surprised by a full set of gleaming dentures. Tenderly, Harry cradled her in his arms.
‘Let Joan have that old curmudgeon,’ he purred. ‘He doesn’t deserve you,’ and, cupping her chin in his hands, he bent forward and kissed both her tassels.