Stories from Tomorrow first performed at Story Friday Tomorrow, 21st September 2018, Burdall’s Yard, Bath.
Tomorrow could mean Saturday – or it could mean the year 2060. At Story Friday Tomorrow we wondered about what happens next. Lots of the stories explored aspects of the future, but Christine Roberts and Christina Saunders contemplated contemporary tomorrows. We always have a one or two newcomers with every Story Friday, and this time we welcomed Victoria Dowd (who read her work on stage for the very first time ever), Christina Saunders and Nicolas Ridley. Plus some old favourites with Stephanie Weston, Christine Roberts, Clare Reddaway and Richard Bond. Caroline Garland and Oliver Langdon read a story each, quite beautifully. We printed one of Richard’s pieces of flash fiction in the programme too. You can read his story ‘Whose Tomorrow?’ if you scroll down the page.
Please have a listen of the stories we recorded on the night. We’d love to know what you think of them, if you’d like to leave us a comment!
Download the story here: The Queuing Dead
Download the story here: Soul Depository
Download the story here: What Happens At The Edge
Download the story here: Doing What Comes Naturally
Richard’s enigmatic and chilling story about a future virus is movingly read by Caroline Garland. ‘Is There Anybody Not Waiting?’ is written by Richard Bond:
Download the story: Is There Anybody Not Waiting?
Chris takes us to the brutal reality of today’s streets with her story. Wait until after the first bout of applause to hear her dedication. ‘Every Day Is Like The Day Before’, written and read by Christine Roberts:
Download the story: Every Day Is Like The Day Before
Download the story here: Stuff It
To finish, this is Richard Bond’s piece of flash fiction ‘Whose Tomorrow?’ which we printed in the programme:
Whose Tomorrow? By Richard Bond
After work, crammed into the bar watching it all on the big screen, a man and a woman stand close together. The protest became a riot then a massacre now a n uprising. Frantic reporters talk for their lives crouched under pot-marked walls, others behind the front line interview the wounded. One protestor with blood on his hands tells the camera he’s lost his sons. They came to protest peacefully, didn’t want trouble, no one did, why did the police open fire, what in god’s name was happening, whose blood was this? He doesn’t know, shakes his head, wanders away confused.
In the bar, drink flows like there’s no tomorrow. The man’s wife rings; the city isn’t safe, better here in the suburbs, the children are asking how long will he be? Not long.
And the woman’s flat-mate too, she can hear gunshots from their balcony, she is frightened, how long will she be? Not long.
An old timer says the President must go, he’d back the rebels. They all would here, but the President is strong, easier said than done, could be a long bloody business, they agree. The army holds the key, which way they go. No love lost between the generals and the President, but the rebels are not their natural allies either. No love lost all round.
The man and woman leave the bar and he takes her hand. It’s time, he says. Yes, it is, she replies.
As they approach the train station, the protestor with blood on his hands walks past, still shaking his head. He glances at them, spits and runs into the night shouting ‘betrayed’!
A distant flash illuminates a skein of smoke rising over the city. She grips his hand tightly, they smile and walk on. This will be their tomorrow.