Paris or Bust.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner week 28. Pick up your muse and write, read or join in. Post on the blue frog up to 200 words. press  here

Picture prompt from pixabay.

The easy jet from Paris was disembarking, any minute she’d bypass the baggage collection and speed her way into his arms. I see her looking, calm almost detached, her hand guides her carryon, a hard shell yellow case on wheels. Straightening my tie I breathe deeply, give a tug to the bottom of my uniform then step forward. Her face lights up, her eyes stop momentarily on his and like Judus he nods towards me.

Blond hair flopped over her eye as she turned her head to follow his nod, she sees me. “Mirrium Naughton please,” I direct her with an open palm towards customs. Her pupils enlarged, small beads of perspiration sat on her top lip. She whipped her head back to meet his gaze once more, “come with me.”

My first arrest in my new role was one I will never forget. Handshakes all round, my back slapped several times. But still, the bad taste coated my tongue each time I thought how easily her husband betrayed her.

What do you think she had done? pop your thoughts in the comments I can’t wait to read.

Advertisements

Different Can Be Good.

This morning he made me a cuppa; called upstairs to let me know. Gazing out the window into the sunlight, he stood pressed against the sink, my tea sat alone on the worktop. Silently I took in the shape of him, placed my flat palm in the arch of his back. Pressing firmly I rubbed slowly towards the back of his neck and twiddled the edges of his hair damp from his morning ablutions. I closed my eyes as my cheek found a space just the right shape; between his shoulder blades. I whispered softly, “I do love you” as my nostrils sucked in his fresh morning scent. The husband, (as I often refer to him) gave a low chuckle “Jolly good” he said. This was a response I had almost got used to, a tongue in cheek remark that sometimes … slips under my skin.

The thing is when you move and breathe in unison when you know what is about to be said … just once, you’d like something different, a fresh surprising thing. Aware as I was that although he did not want tea himself … he thought of me. Though he could have said I love you too, it would have been what many would have said. He chose to say something that he knew I would recognise as his. Even so, deep down, I would have been excited by a new response.

At the end of a special dinner, I know he enjoys a cheese board with all manner of pomp and smell. But just occasionally I surprise him with sticky toffee pudding made from scratch. I Serve it with a salted caramel sauce and fresh cream; in potbellied jugs. But this day, the one about which I write … I purchased a bun from the baker, one that I myself can’t eat.

He cooked us a roast with all the trimmings. We laughed at what we had both read and had done during our day. I spoke to him about his response this morning, how occasionally it would be good to be different, how different is sometimes nice. Not something you’d want too much of you understand, but good to be surprised with occasionally.

Then I presented him a warm hot cross bun, after all, it is Easter.

I listened to the locks turn as I climbed into our bed, I can hear him muttering something under his breath. Once settled we chat about everything and nothing; “Goodnight Husband, that I love” we kiss and squeeze. He wriggles closer, traps me from behind with both arms and legs. “Till morning you funny old thing.” As he blew a raspberry on the back of my neck. “That different enough for you.”

“Perfect,” I said.

Click on ‘Stream of consciouciousness Saturday to join or read other responses. SoCs the prompt was ‘Bun’. I hope you enjoyed my response.

Do you think we need to make the effort to be spontaneous … occasionally. Leave me a comment I can’t wait to read.

No One Was in The Room But the Corpse

The telephone bell was ringing wildly, but without result, since there was no-one in the room but the corpse. –War in Heaven by Charles Williams

The writing readers prompt from last year was ‘take the first line of the above and begin.’ A refreshed version of my original waits to see if you like my take on it, a very different direction for me and my first stab at writing this year.

The telephone was ringing wildly but without result since there was no-one in the room … but the corpse. I fumbled for my passcard hands fidgeting in each pocket. Once located I waved it in front of the fob. The panel slid left to reveal an image collector, the incessant ring made my ears throb. I pressed my eye to the lens then a swish, the security glass door released. Ring, ring, ring, “Shut up” I shouted as it continued to break the silence. Before a console, I stopped, slid my fingers in the fixed knuckle duster like holder. I hear it ping and pull my fingers free; wipe them clean on the dispensed tissue. I grasped the handle; one twist and I was in.

” Whoever chose this green antique needs hanging.” I say to the room as I unbutton my coat tug at my scarf pushing them together on the hook, ‘ring ring, ring ring’ … “Shut the bugger up.” It rang on while I fastened a white coat; covered it with a rubber apron, pulled surgical gloves into place, once the mask at my neck was tied I was ready for action.

My journey to the wildly ringing beast took forever with polythene goloshes over my shoes. snatched the handset from the cradle as it stopped. An eerie peace fell over the room my heartbeat seemed to echo and bounce off the white walls.exasperated I went to the trolley, wrapped the mike around my ear and began.

“I am unzipping the shroud from the cadaver, still warm to the touch 12° Celsius, samples drawn, toxicological, biochemical and genetic testing is underway along with fluid samples. It is 0600 hours 23rd December 2050, twenty-eight hours since dispatch.   X-ray’s, MRI and cat scans completed, copies have been sent by secure imaging to (SIS) and Downing Street.”

My mind focussed and the world shutout once in the flow, the zone I let nothing else penetrate. “External examination. The outer coating as seen has a prominent vein-like structure running just below the dermal membrane. The outer layer has an ashen tinge with some oedema present, on each of the four limbs and rear appendage. Three elongated digits on each limb at angles. Soft tissue is uncovered; no nail or nail bed present; professor  Jacobs breaking off at 8.22.”

‘Click’ I pull the microphone from my ear and place it (still running) on the trolly, peel off my gloves and bin them; I rotate my shoulders and stretch my neck feeling a silent click release. In the office area, I open the fridge and retrieve some water. My backside hit the chair; my mind took over. This way of working was intense.

The situation was unbelievable, I still hadn’t got my head around any of it. A car came for me and the official secrets act was sworn and signed before a QC across the City, recalling the facts; seemed so surreal now. I shook my head and stood up stretching. With no time to waste, I set to, putting my mind to the task.

The external exam complete, I was ready to begin the cut. This part of the process was to be documented and observed by an external anatomical pathology scientist. On reaching for the phone it began to ring, I physically jumped, the sound echoed around me, once I was steady I picked up the receiver. “Professor Jacobs lab” three, four minutes passed with me repeating the greeting, I stared down the earpiece; willing a reply. I was squinting so hard my head hurt; it felt uncomfortable, I dropped the phone back on the cradle. My frown stayed when I dialled reception, I was massaging my temples with a free hand, ‘click’ … “Jacobs lab here, I got cut off? Please re-connect my caller.” … Silence ensued “Hello, hello.” There was dead air, no background noise, which would be normal in a busy reception. Once again the handset replaced and my face wore it’s now familiar frown. Throwing a pencil on my desk I said to the room “Sheila’s probably doing her nails… I’ll collect the observer myself while she calls the tech to fix the damn phone, who knows I may get a smart one ‘Huh,’ I logged out once more and walked to the lift. Once more the phone ‘rang and rang and rang, and rang’  but no one was in the room but the corpse.

http://www.animatedimages.org/.

What did you think was occurring? Let me know in the comments, I will get back quick smart…

My First Exquisite Dress.

I love the life of your hat,

I once had a dress like that.
All grace and glamour,
The boy’s would clamour
To glimpse the off shoulder
French fancy.

And me, at sixteen,
I learned how to preen
I perfected a wiggle,
A look over my shoulder,
But under my brows.

The dress held my joi de vivre
My confidence my class.
It was in the lace,
While I hid the blush
Upon my face.

My parisienne dress
wasn’t me.
But in it, I could be,
Entertaining and sweet.
They would fall at my feet,
And I could shoo them away.

Back then, when age was nothing
But a moment in time.
Confidence plucked from air
As the flower in my hair.
It was all so fleeting,
like a clandestine meeting.

The whistlers

I catch a noise before I sleep
The whistlers skulk about
Spreading fear skin deep.
Chirruping secret calls,
Hiding behind garden walls.
Disturbing young girls dreamsI wake with terrifying screams.

I pull a quilt over my head,
Hide a torch beneath the bed.
Prepare to fight for my life
I take Mum’s vegetable knife.
It’s old and blunt, bent a bit
She stabs at spuds in the pot
To ascertain if they are hot.

Armed, I squeeze Emma tight,
Her yellow suit warm and bright
She comforts me as I hum
a lulluby learned from Mum.
Doll and me are doing fine
Until music starts keeping time.

Through the crack, behind the bed
I hear the tune, inside my head,
Sweet and soft hardly heard.
Matching me word for word.
Spuriously stuffing notes in a sack
My sleep is wrestled into the black.

Sheets tangle around my legs,
like on the line, around Mummy’s pegs.
I can’t escape, I scream at last,
Sodden sheets and whitened mask.
Tapping her foot beside my bed
Mummy glares, shakes her head.
washed and clean no longer soiled
Tea is made …
Once the
whistling kettle’s
boiled.

For those who want to listen to me speaking the poem click the link below…

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7WJ-42kvYrWdGtNM3RBdERHcWpYNlZwcXVxMGctWmVzYXFJ/view?usp=drivesdk

Written for A Halloween poetry competition press here to see all the wonderful enteries here Thank you Auroura for the opportunity.

A little Halloween can go a long way… What were you scared of? Or maybe you still are? leave me a comment I’ll answer quick smart.

Liking Autumn

I love the crunch beneath my boots,

Crisp mornings and coloured trees.

Fingerless gloves and owl hoots,

Long scarves down to my knees.

Conkers burst their, spiked armour,

Spill their seeds for conker wars.

Scarlet and golden paint a scene,

To cover paths and forest floors.

Without Autumn there’d be no respite

a harvest moon would not appear.

No Halloween or cosy suppers

To bring us all our Autumn cheer.

So many of you asked, ‘what are conkers?’ I have popped this link for you. Here . The shaddow fighter picture above was found un credited on the internet and depicts a conker war. All other shots are of my own making.

What do you like about Autumn? Have you played Conkers? I’d love to hear … go on, you know you’d like to.

A Frantic photo.

Capture 1

 

I watch a very attractive twenty-something girl, (youth is beauty after all) she poses outside a well-known emporium in London. I sip my tea as I catch a glimpse of the figure through the steamy window, across the street. Her task became clear as pedestrians moved on, leaving her in view.

She shot five, ten maybe twenty or more snaps, all with different sections of shopfront. The window dressing backdrops, all varieties of poses. There was lipstick on and off, a chin down and up, head to the right then left. One which surely was one side only with a book covering one eye. Hair combed, twisted, tucked and pulled.

My tea finished I walked across the street curious to see her closeup. I couldn’t help it, I smiled and said ‘the first one, you were far more beautiful in the first one.’ She came after me; touched my arm. ‘Sorry. but how do you know?’ She was agitated not quite cross but rattled. I pointed across the road ‘I was in the tea house and saw you clicking, taking shots with your phone … you were perfect in the first one.’

She scrolled fast through her gallery as she tip-tapped alongside. Until she shoved her i phone under my nose. ‘This one … why would it be the best, my nose looks long at that angle and my lips look dry, it isn’t the best at all.’ She was quite frantic, rushing her words, pushing her chest forward. ‘But your nose is the way it is, besides in the first one you were twenty-five minutes younger than the last, so it must be the best.’ I left her baffled as I went about my day. We are what we are regardless of the persona we show the virtual world. Our looks constantly change so each picture depicts a flash of what was; not a perfect shot of what is. The worry on the face of the young woman bothers me. Why the image was so important, it appeared imperative so stressful that I swear I heard palpitations and saw a fear in her eyes. I suppose the term ‘selfie syndrome’ will soon be another condition that parents have to watch for. It seems appearance is all, and ageing humans such as myself, women and men that have lives and deaths etched on our faces will be invisible. At least to the people

We are what we are regardless of the persona we show the virtual world. Our looks constantly change so each picture depicts a flash of what was, not a perfect shot of what is. The worry on the face of the young woman bothers me. Why the image was so important, it appeared imperative, so stressful that I swear I heard palpitations and saw a fear in her eyes. I suppose the term ‘selfie syndrome’ will soon be another condition that parents have to watch for. It seems appearance is all, and ageing humans such as myself, women and men that have lives and deaths etched on our faces will be invisible. At least to the people whose faces, they believe are the measure of them.

thank you unsplash for the use of the picture.

I would love your answer to the question … why was the perfect shot so important?

An Educated Walk

To join Rochelle’s prompt press ‘here’

A hundred miles I walked. Stinking dirty miles, in shoes that didn’t fit. The right too tight, reminding me, squeezing too much in leaves little space to breathe.

The left, two sizes too big, rubbed raw my foot. It made me bleed until it seeped through the lace holes and rolled back the skin, but on I walked.

It taught me to say no, to leave room to be kind, so I can grow a better man.

It taught me, never to be too proud to admit, this is too big for me.

It needn’t hurt to learn that lesson just take an educated walk.

Thanks for the Photo @Sarah Potter

The bike.

Emily took her helmet and silently slid the bifolds back to reveal the garden. Her once warm face received a blast. left with pink cheeks and a pinched nose which she wiggled as she fastened the helmet neath her chin. She closed the doors, pleased to have paid extra for the silent sliders. Emily heard the first birds of the day and spied a squirrel munching below the hazel. She filled her nostrils with Autumn, felt the frost in the air; mingled with wood-smoke in the wind. Emily marched down the path to the back of the cart lodge. A light caught the handlebars, a ribbon of anticipation bubbled in her chest she smiled to herself. Her leg thrown over the saddle and fingerless gloves took the chill from the grips; she was away.

Slowly, she passed the Beech hedge its copper leaves dangled precariously from the boughs. A row of horse-chestnuts were almost naked. The huge trees ran fifty yards down the length of the beech hedging, interspersed with red Hazel. Emily could only smile on such a day as this, she knew there was something magical in the air and had always loved the first ride of the season.

Oblivious to the crunch of leaves quickening behind her, or the raggedy breath wheezing puffs of cloudy air. She meandered, gazing at the sunrise and its colours spread over the fields.

She sensed danger rather than saw him, the taste of fear on her tongue. Emily peddled faster but as speed picked up, her bike was tugged hard. Over the handlebars, she drifted slow motion it seemed. The thud was the last thing she remembered as the world spun blue and green.

With a twist of her head, pain shot up her spine as the darkness enveloped her. She didn’t know what hit her. The lining of her nose stung with the scent of bitumen and burned wood. Prone on a bed of coal she lay, tears ran freely into her hair and her ears filled. One shake of her head cleared her ears but caused spasms of pain to ricochet into her toes. All she could see were sun rays bursting through the grid, way above her head.

The photo/ prompt is Sue Vincents #writephoto to be found here. The gif is taken from a short animated Oscar-winning film called ‘Father and daughter’ to be found on youtube.

My short is open to an ending or maybe it is the beginning of what?

The End of Summer.

When illness stole the Summer.

I was distracted when it came in, what with moving house.

When Easter’s sun puddled chocolate; it seeped through the foil.

Life exhausted my bones, each sinew ached for rest, but on I’d toil.

Pleased to be in this lovely space where history would join with our taste, we’d make a home.

He’d gazed a face like this before. His eyes focused, periwinkle blue.

That doctor, one Summers day … he knew.

When sun and storms made gardens green, The well was clear and ducks shared our stream. I missed those days and slept it seems.

Through Summer, the missed paddles and golden dreams.

That summer will be remembered … or not.

As the one, I slept away.

The summer of

Misty minds

And forgotten

Days that was

The End Of Summer for me.

Now Autumn calls, I hope not to miss the golden leaves the morning mists.

A bike to peddle the flab away on crisp voluptuous days like today.

I hope you enjoyed my freeform write, leave a word, I hope you might.