Sunday 9 June 2024

Nerd Church - Short Story: Gravel-Crunch

This is another Anna Sinclair short story - if you don't know what that is, then you may or may not want to read the previous stories first.

If you do, here they are:

If you don't - the briefest of re-caps:

Anna Sinclair rocks, she swears a lot, and she's got some kind of feud going with some rich boys called Miles and Tony Addison, relating to some money. At least some of said money is currently down Anna's bra.

Now you pretty much know everything I do about her πŸ˜…

Warning: alcohol


A short story about one Anna Sinclair.

playground swing
Image by AndrΓ© Rau from Pixabay


“Miss Sinclair?”

“Yeah?” she scuffled her boots through the stick-crunch gravel beneath the swing set.

“It’s Mr Burrows. Of Burrows, Hipkiss, Jones and Miller?”

“Oh. Goody,” she rolled her eyes; she was on the phone, he’d never know.

“Anna,” gentle, fatherly; old bastard.

“Oh so it’s ‘Anna’ now, is it Mr Burrows?” she tapped her half-empty vodka bottle with her fingernails, pushing herself a little on the swing; making her own shitty symphony with glass-tap and gravel-scrunch.

“Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t see how it’s anything to you.”

“Anna — ”

“What do you want Mr Burrows?”

A tempered sigh came through in response. She could practically see the old battleaxe pinching his nose in frustration. He was probably sat in his office, behind that truly mahoosive desk, oak thick as a ship’s hull. If he was really annoyed, he’d be rubbing his eyes under his round specs — the old-fashioned, baronets-and-Eton-circa-1922, kind of lenses. Burrows was an old-fashioned sort, even for a solicitor.

“I — ” he said, and good Lord, the old fart was actually hesitant — that couldn’t be good, “I received a call from a representative of… of Miles Addison-”

“ — Oh fuck no!”

“Miss Sinclair!”

Fuck no. What the fuck does that bastard want?”

“Miss Sinclair, I must object to…”

“What. The. Fuck. Mister Burrows.”

“Miles and Anthony Addison… they allege that there’s been some… harrassment. And something about a sum of money.”

Fuck fuck fuckity-fuck FUCK!

“Well that’s bullshit,” she said, deflating over her vodka bottle, “fucking… harrassment. Fuck them.”

“Anna,” his voice was low, confidential, “did you take a large sum of money from them? Perhaps from their house in Dorset? We can deal with it, if you did — straighten things out with them.”

“I have never taken anything that belongs to Miles and Anthony Addison. Ever.”

Well, it wasn’t a lie. That money was hers.

He sighed, “I’m going to choose to take that at face value,” he said, “You know, your mother — ”

“Nope. No. Not talking about that, Burrows. You know that.”

“She wouldn’t want you to — ”

“What she would or would not want doesn’t fucking matter any more. Never did her any good to play nice, did it?”

He sighed again, she usually had that affect on him, “Just… try not to antagonise them, Miss Sinclair.”


“Well provoking them isn’t — ”


“Alright. Alright. Just… stay as far away from the Addison boys as you can, Anna — I’ll field things on the legal side, but the less contact there is between the three of you, the better.”

“No arguments there,” she moved more aggressively on the swing, getting more of a motion going, shoving her frustration into the gravel below, “I don’t want to be anywhere near those tossers. Never have.”

“Right. Is there an address I can send any paperwork to…?”


“Are you… are you alright, Anna? We can get you some accommodation, if you need, you know.”

“I’m fine. Just laying low, somewhere those tosspots wouldn’t think to look. I’ll come by the office if there’s anything you need signed, otherwise just ring me, Burrows — anything that I need to know can be said on the fucking phone. You can e-mail, too, if it stops your knickers from twisting.”

“…Alright. Take care, Miss Sinclair.”

“You too, Mr Burrows. You too.”

She hung up, considered the remnants in her bottle of vodka, and stashed it in her bag for later. Waste not, want not.

This was… unexpected. She didn’t think they’d be ballsy enough to go the legal route. But fuck it. Let them.

Let the fucking rich pricks see what happens when you take on Anna Sinclair. Daddy wasn’t around to help them this time.

πŸ’– Rattles digital tip-jar πŸ’– 

So - whatcha think?

Talk to me! πŸ˜ŽπŸ’¬

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  1. Replies
    1. Thank you so much! :)

      She's one of those characters who are just gonna keep cropping up, with or without my permission! (Lol.)

  2. "At least some of said money is currently down Anna's bra."

    "Well, it wasn’t a lie. That money was hers."

    Looking forward to see this feud play out...

    1. Lol, so am I! (I have zero control here, not gonna lie.)


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