Trevor Belshaw Author

Author of Out of Control

Category: Short Stories

Designer Shorts

Re-Released today. The Kindle version of my collection of Short Stories, poetry and sample chapters.

Knees provided by
David W Robinson

Designer Shorts is an anthology of short stories, excerpts from works in progress and a bonus section of poetry by the author of Tracy’s Hot Mail, T A Belshaw.
The collection includes two emails from the sequel to Tracy’s Hot Mail, Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail.
The Zombie Poets is a rather amusing tale about the aftermath of a Zombie apocalypse. The Zombies don’t want to eat brains; they have something far worse in mind.
The Psychic is a short story about a bored policeman stuck on desk duty, who encounters a strange individual delivering a very disturbing message.
Blind Date is a three-part story of a woman who allows herself to be persuaded to go on a blind date with the friend of a friend.
The Instant Messaging Machine, the Bath O’ Matic and The Time Machine are a series of Steampunk stories based around a Victorian inventor and the wife of his best friend who is determined to become the test driver for his amazing inventions.
The Second Valentine’s Day Massacre is a tale of gangster revenge.
Can You tell me Where God Is, tells the story, in verse, of a man struggling to bypass heaven’s insufferable, red tape.
At My Expense, is a poem about MPs expenses, whilst Clicking Gran is a children’s poem long listed in the Plough Prize international poetry Competition.

My Mistake was highly commended in the Farringdon Poetry competition.

Available on Kindle, Click Here. Amazon UK



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The Steampunk Instant Messaging Machine

From 2011

‘What an interesting device, Sir Oswald. What does it do exactly?’ Albert Parkin straightened his cravat, leant back in the stiff leather chair and took a sip from his brandy glass.

‘This,’ said Sir Oswald, ‘is my latest invention. I call it the IM machine. It is capable of sending short messages to recipients anywhere in the world. Providing they have one of these devices of course.’

‘Doesn’t the Telegraph system already do that?’ asked Albert.

Sir Oswald nodded. ‘Yes, but this little beauty can be set up in a person’s own home or office.’ A huge grin spread over his face. ‘No waiting for the delivery boy.’

‘It does looks very impressive,’ said Mrs Parkin from the back of the machine. Her head appeared through a cloud of steam. ‘How does one send an instant message?’

Sir Oswald puffed out his chest and stood proudly in front of the contraption. He opened a small door and threw in a single lump of coal. A fresh burst of steam hissed from a valve at the rear making Mrs Parkin scurry round to the front. She laid a soft hand on Sir Oswald’s arm as a small cloud of smoke snaked from a funnel on top.

Let’s say,’ said Sir Oswald, ‘that I wanted to send a message to Mrs Pettigrew, my secretary at Crankshaft and Piston Ltd. All I would have to do is this…’

Sir Oswald pulled a red lever, twisted a dial, then pulled on a green handle. He turned to Mrs Parkin with a smile as a panel slid to the side and a typewriter keyboard presented itself.

‘Voila.’

Sir Oswald fingers danced across the brightly polished keys. As he hit return, the machine emitted a small toot. There was a crunching of cogs, and more steam hissed from the safety valve. To Mrs Parkin’s delight a thin strip of tape appeared from a slot in front of her.

At Sir Oswald’s invitation, Mrs Parkin pulled the tape from the slot and read aloud.

‘Mrs Pettigrew. Please reply to this message immediately.’

Sir Oswald fed the tape into a second slot just above the first, and pressed the return key again.

‘Shouldn’t take a minute,’ he preened. ‘We have an identical machine in the office. We’re hoping to have thirty of them littered around the county by the end of next year.’

Sir Oswald poured himself another brandy and strolled back to the IM machine.

‘It’s taking longer than usual,’ he said with a frown.

Continue reading
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The 2nd Valentine’s Day Massacre

My first, and last, gangster story. From circa 2011. This story got a good few thousand hits with a lot of interest from the USA.

The 2nd Valentine’s Day Massacre

I climbed out of the model A Ford, closed the door behind me and tapped on the side of the car to signal Jimmy to pull away. We chose the Ford deliberately, a car so common that no one would remember. I would have liked to have travelled in style but we couldn’t risk Luigi’s Cadillac, someone would be sure to notice it.
I turned up my collar against the biting wind, pulled my hat down over my eyes and crossed the slush-covered street. It was quiet, but I was still wary. I looked around to check that I wasn’t being followed. I needn’t have worried, only a few people braved the cold February night. I rapped on a glass panelled door and it was opened almost immediately by a guy wearing greasy trousers and a vest. He was sweating profusely, even though it was freezing cold in the hallway. He noticed my quizzical expression.
‘Laundry,’ he muttered. ‘We have a laundry at the back.’
I grunted and followed him upstairs to a room overlooking the street. My host nodded to the window and turned to leave, but before he reached the door I’d slipped the cheese wire round this throat. He died a minute or so later.
The dirty, single curtain was pulled across, so I stood to the side of the window and inched it open. Whoever had selected the vantage point had chosen well, I had a clear, unhindered view of the restaurant over the road. I pulled up a chair, lit a cigarette, checked my pocket watch and waited for Mary to signal.
At 8.30 I saw the light in the room at the side of the restaurant flick on and off twice. My audience had arrived, it was time to get the show on the road.
I took the stairs two at a time, then stood for a moment to give the adrenalin time to settle. Satisfied, I let myself out, checked the street as I crossed, then walked down the alley at the side of the restaurant.
Mary was at the back door with a smile on her lips and a glint in her eye. She looked good, even in her waitress clothes. She leaned forward and our lips touched. Her scent took me straight back to her bedroom, to one of the many nights we had spent together over the past few weeks. My eyes dropped to that wonderful chest, I felt the sap rise, I wanted her there and then, on the cold floor tiles.
Mary sensed what was going through my mind. ‘Easy Tiger.’ Continue reading

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