Midnight Confessions - For the Writer's Post prompt #36

Mark rubbed at the ache between his eyes, closing them against the studio lights. He flicked a switch, turned the overheads off, leaving only the vaguely eerie electronic gleams from the equipment, red, green. The storm loomed beyond the windows, their panoramic views making him feel nauseous. Working up the King Tower on nights like tonight always made him uneasy. Sixty storeys up was no place to be in the middle of a wind-driven thunderstorm.

The track finished and he opened the mic.

“Wicked night out there, my friends. Best stay in with KLM57, and your host, Mark Davis. Here's one to rock you into dreamland.”

He set off a trio of slow, smooth classics and rose, wandering the box of a studio, trying to ease out the tension in his limbs. He flinched away from the glass as lightning flashed, watched it arc and strike somewhere deep in the maze of glittering lights that was the city at night. He needed to get himself together.

His late show was popular, enough that he was beginning to get calls from some of the major networks, feelers about transfers, bigger salaries, his name in lights, but he wasn't sure that was what he wanted. If he left KLM he'd be giving up a lot of the control he had right now. He chose his playlist every night, chose not to run commercials unless they were for local charity events, and he had the phone-in, direct contact with people he might actually stand a chance of knowing. It wasn't the biggest of cities, and he occasionally ran into someone he had talked to. It gave him a good feeling, something he wasn't sure he'd ever feel at a big station.

He hurried back to his seat, readying the jingle for the phone-in hour, wondering what would crop up tonight. He let the jingle run, his voice over soft, sexy music.

'Midnight confessions, where the night hides all.'

He threw the mic open again and felt some of his tension ease away, slipping into the familiar.

“It's that time, folks. Got something you want to get off your chest? Give me a call. You talk, the city listens and no-one knows who you are. You know the number.”

He set off a couple of tracks and didn't have to wait long. Three calls lit up immediately. He answered the first, got a standard 'woman who got revenge on her ex', asked her to hold. The second was typical of storm nights. Something crazy got into people and they made prank calls about aliens. He was polite, but firm in denying them air time. The third was a young woman, attractive voice, sexy, but brisk.

“I have a confession.”

“Care to give me an idea? I have to be careful what gets said, even this late.”

“Sex, murder and my favourite song.” came the reply.

Something tugged at him, made him think this wasn't a prankster, and he put her on hold.

Ten minutes later, having allowed the scorned woman her moment of anonymous ranting, he flicked the button and that sexy voice filled the airwaves, slow and measured.

“Go ahead caller, the city is listening.”

“It's you I want to talk to, Mark” came the response and he felt a sexual thrill as he spoke his name. Jeez, he needed a date.

“I'm listening right along with them, Ma'am.”

“I think you'll like my story, Mark.”

“The night is yours.”

“The night is always mine. Don't you love how it covers all those little indiscretions? None of the sordid stains show up til morning, when we're long gone. Back to our respectable jobs, our families, our clean faces firmly in place. Do you have any idea what goes down on the streets of this city when darkness gives us license to be who we really are?”

Mark wasn't sure she wanted an answer, the fact that she gave only the briefest of pauses before continuing convincing him. He was getting the first stirring of unease from her. He wasn't sure if she was about to explode on some rant about a philandering husband or wanted to rail against a faceless, uncaring city, but his finger hovered over the cut-off switch.

“I'm what was once known as a 'Lady of the Night'. There are harsher words, but I like those. They have the romance due one of the oldest professions, don't you think? Don't get me wrong, I don't peddle my wares on street corners like the addicts and runaways. I have a client list, carefully selected, and they pay me well for their perversions. It never ceases to amaze me how many men, less so with women, have the need to be humiliated, beaten...”

Mark's finger began it's move, but she seemed to sense it, smoothly halting him.

“Don't do that, Mark, please. I'll do better, keep it acceptable.”

“You're on notice.” he warned her.

“My point is that this city, like every other, is a paradise of wealth, prosperity and shiny, happy people, but it is only surface. They all lie, every one of them, even you, Mark.”

That gave him pause. There was venom when she spoke his name. Was this some distant girlfriend returning to take vengeance now he had a degree of fame?

“Oh yes, I know about you, Mark Davis. Your work is your world. You spend each night doing as you please, playing what you want, choosing which confessions you want to hear, playing the city to your tune. Do you ever consider the people you decide aren't worthy of your time, the city's attention?”

This wasn't going well. Clearly she felt he'd scorned her in her time of need and this was her answer. If he cut her off now, he'd seem like an ass, but if he let her run on he had no idea what she was planning.

“Not sure what to say or do, Mark? Feeling a bit lost? They know how that feels. All those people you decided weren't interesting enough to put on your precious little show. They all knew what it was like to be ignored, to feel worthless, uncertain what to do next. Should they take tablets, throw themselves under a train, maybe a quick slash to each wrist? Always vertical, remember. At least get that bit right, huh Mark? Do you know how many people who listen to your show have committed suicide in the last two years? No idea have you...?”

She took his silence for answer, continuing as he sat in a hole filled with dark uncertainty.

“Cut me off, Mark, I dare you. No? Then let me finish. At least two people a month, self-confessed listeners to your dirty little confessions show, choose to take their lives. Every one of them has been refused air time by you. You were their final port of call, the last place they turned to find someone, anyone, even a faceless, heedless city, who would hear their voice, their story. You failed them... every single time.”

“You can't know that” he spluttered and felt ice run down his spine at her burst of staccato laughter.

“Silly boy, of course I can. No names here, right? But no harm in my telling you that I have been running your fun club for two years. I know every move you make, listen to every programme, and I share all this with the deluded souls who adore you. We have a website, did you know that? Sure you do, what am I thinking? She snorted derisively, “You'd know everything written about you, right? Bet you haven't visited the forum though...”

His hands were now clenched fists in his lap, the fact that very word was being sent bouncing off satellites, dancing around the city to avid listeners eager for blood no longer figured in his mind.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to give me what you never gave them. A chance. A chance to tell my story. The forum is a fascinating place, Mark. That's where they really let rip. They adore you, of course, but they also tell the stories you won't let them air. The tales of rape, beatings, drugs, drink, depression, cutting, unending loneliness. Those things are too heavy for your little confessions slot, right? Let's stick to women sewing smelly cheese into the curtains before they leave the ex marital home. Lost and found cats, fun stuff, nothing with any real meaning.

If I hadn't caught your attention, forced you to leave me on air, you'd never have let me speak. The minute I mentioned my job I'd have been gone. So long and don't come back. Like all those suicides.”

Something in the inflection on 'suicides' made him sit up and take notice. He reached for his mobile, silently calling the police, wondering if there was any hope of finding this woman. He hoped it was true that the police had to respond to every emergency call, even if nothing was said. He also hoped she couldn't hear the faint voice of the dispatcher.

“Called the cops yet, Mark? I think you have. Pretty sure you can't let me talk much longer. Think about what this is doing to your reputation. Sorry sweetie, they won't catch me. I'm not even in the city tonight. But don't you worry, I'll be back, when it's time for another suicide. They are so easy, Mark. They trust me, a harmless woman, working a job no-one admits to , shunned in polite circles. They talk to me, don't even notice when I slip something in their drink. They sleep, I give them that, when I cut them. I give them something you refuse to do. I give them release.

Forty-eight so far, Mark. Two for every month you've been running your little show. You know what the best of it is? My work is flexible. I can do it anywhere. Thinking of taking those job offers from the big stations? I'll be there too. I want to follow your success, like a good fan girl. I can create new sites, new fan clubs, new suicides... anywhere.

I guess I better go. You'll have questions to deal with in a moment or two. I wouldn't want to interrupt. Just remember... I'm out here, and every time you deny someone a voice, I'll give them one. You'll be notorious as the cause of all these deaths, more than me. I'll just be a shadow, faceless, voiceless, like them.”

Empty air buzzed and crackled. Lightning flashed and Mark actually shrieked, curling into his seat, hugging his knees... voiceless and alone.

Author's note - I always knew I had a story about this in me, but it has taken me many years to find it. I adored 'Midnight Caller', watched it religiously, and I've been a fan of Gary Cole ever since (American Gothic... swoon!) I'd like to think he would have enjoyed this little take on his show (even if that is a bit immodest!)

You dirty rat! - For Jane's prompt at GBE2

“So, there was this rat...”

The group uttered a good-natured groan. Beth headed for the kitchen, returning with a couple of bottles of wine. Other members handed round glasses, and Jane sank into 'The Story Chair'. It was her privilege, and for all the groans and rolled eyes, the group were looking forward to this week's tale.

Every week they gathered and one member would step forward to relate an anecdote or spin a yarn. Jane was well known for her rambling, funny tales, and they were enjoyed, This week, when she'd entered the room sporting a set of 27 stitches in her cheek, they knew they were in for something epic. A hush fell, members finally settling into comfortable positions and Jane took a deep breath;

“I’d been at the computer for a while. I wasn't really doing much, just pottering about, writing a little, trawling for anything interesting or amusing, when I saw it. I swear, a rat the size of a rabbit! It shot across from the sofa, panicked when I shrieked, bounced off the snake cage and things kinda went pear-shaped from there in.

You know how much my aunt loves that snake. First time she's let anyone else watch it while she goes away and all hell breaks loose. The rat hit the catch on the door and that bloody thing was out and haring after the rat like Usain Bolt! It's eight feet long and not the fastest thing on the planet, but I fell over the cat when I got up from the desk, knocked myself out on the mantel and it escaped...

When I woke up, there was no sign of the rat, the snake or the cat! I had a lump the size of a hen's egg on my temple and a headache which could drum for Metallica. I ignored the trail of destruction I could see heading up the hall, picked my way through two broken vases, a shredded curtain and a stretch of carpet which appeared to have been used as a skid-pan, aiming to get some painkillers before searching for the snake.

I rounded the stairs saw the cat backed into a corner on the landing, the snake coiled around a light cord and dangling over the rat which was advancing on the cat. The snake went for the rat which jumped the cat. As the rat disappeared into the snake by gulping degrees the cat flung itself from the newel post and clamped onto my face like something out of Alien! By the time I peeled it off, the rat had vanished and the snake was gradually coiling its way round the bannister with a suspicious lump in its throat.

I managed to deposit the spitting ball of teeth and claws in the dining room, slammed the door and realised my shirt was turning a rather attractive shade of claret. Damn cat had ripped a memory of the occasion into my cheek. On reflection, I think he might be part sabre tooth! The snake refused to be removed from the bannister, and I have to say I didn't appreciated the way he tongued at me... especially when there was so much blood involved.

At which point, to the loud chorus of angry cat and softly hissing snake, I passed out. To be honest, when I got to the hospital, I told them I cut myself falling asleep at the computer. It was far more believable!”

There were general cheers, a few suspicions voiced, some laughter and a great deal of sympathy, all of which made the real tale – the fact that she'd spent the weekend training to be a magician's assistant; one who it turned out wasn't good with knife throwing – a little easier to bear!

Solitude - TWP prompt

She rose whilst the house slept around her. Despite gentle snores emanating from the two rooms along the hall, she knew there was no peace to be found within those walls. She dressed with awareness, ready to respond in an instant, sure one would wake, need her, or just seek to be around with no particular purpose. She loved her husband, her child, but she was never 'off duty'.

Slipping down the stairs she noticed her shadow, pale in the weak light of dawn. It descended the stairs with hunched back, hands clawed tight about carried shoes, looking over its shoulder like a hunted animal. She made a deliberate effort to stand straight, pausing to slip feet into shoes and release the back door lock, closing it quietly behind her.

Her progress through the rear yard was punctuated by enthusiastic attention from her cats. Two wound about her legs, delighted to have her in their possession, on their territory. She weaved onward, wincing when her tom leapt onto the fence, eyed her with human mischief in his amber gaze and began to caterwaul to the breaking day. 'I'm not feeding you.' she hissed and scurried through the back gate.

It gave onto miles of flat, empty fields. In the summer it was a glory of waving, golden wheat, but in the timorous light of a winter morning the fallow, black earth appeared daunting, featureless and ready to swallow her if she dared step that way. 'I dare' she thought and began to stride across the first field, the moist ground sucking at her shoes, weighing her steps,

Maybe the ground got hungry, she mused, fighting a particularly firm grip on her left foot. Maybe it didn't like being empty; good, fertile ground surely longed to produce. Wasn't that the driving imperative of all living things? The idea of sentient earth freaked her a little, her footsteps a little faster. She drove up the occasional pheasant, flapping, whirring balls of panic, at which she couldn't help but smile.

Breaching a muddy dyke, she reached the oak-lined path to the cliff. The light was stronger now, falling through bare branches, creating abstract art on the roughly trodden path which sloped gradually up. As she stepped onto the way the birds began their glorious greeting to the emerging day. Usually she loved the trills, the whoops and calls, the joyous abandon of birdsong, even if it did only mean 'my tree!', but today she wished they would whisper, or still. She yearned for quiet.

Feeling a little weary, a little sick, she emerged onto the cliffs. The wind whipped up instantly swirling her hair about her face, moulding her trousers against her legs. Up here it was wild, untamed, free to scream over the battered grass and scrub which cowered beneath its onslaught. She braced herself, shoved her hair into a band she scrabbled from her pocket and headed for the edge.

Her habit of standing on the cliff edge terrified both husband and child, but there, with shoes kicked off, toes curled tight into the crumbly chalk and moss, she felt free. For a few moments she was just a being, battered by wind, rain, or snow. Today the world seemed to relent a little as she settled on the edge. The wind died back and for a few blissful moments, the faintest warmth from the sun washed her body.

She wrapped her arms about her belly, looked down and smiled, spoke softly.

“Hey baby. Soon, too soon, you'll belong to everyone. Right now they don't know. It's just you and me, kid and I wanted some solitude, time alone with you, whilst you are just mine. I fought for you, do you know that? I wasn't supposed to be able to do this, but I wanted you so much.'

She looked up, raised her arms, reached for the heat and life of the sun, felt it running through her; through her and into the promise of the baby inside. She knew, though it was only a month gone, without a doubt.

“This is my place. In a few months, we won't be able to get up here. I'll be too tired and fat, but I wanted you to know about this place. I wanted you to know that this is where I came, every day, on my own, and asked the world to let me have you. Earth is a mother, she knows what it is like, and she gave you to me because she knew I'd love and care for you. I will, and so will your dad, and your sister, and everyone else, but for now, for this short while, you are mine. I love you, little one.”      

The Interview - TWP prompt

Eve took a deep breath before entering the interview room. She gripped tight to her notepad, clamped a hand to the strap of the bag hanging on her shoulder; anything to hide the shakes. She was well aware that this was her big break, the interview which would splash her across every national, maybe international, paper. Perhaps even TV. She still wasn't sure she could do it. The world and his wife had heard of the man beyond that plain steel door. He was the stuff of nightmares and he loved young blondes.

Wondering if that was why her boss had chosen her, nervously shoving a stray blonde lock back into the tight, unflattering bun at the nape of her neck, Eve nodded to the armed guard. He swiped the lock with a key chained to his wrist and gestured for her to enter. She stepped across the threshold, her mouth suddenly dry, her eyes darting to the identical door on the opposite side of the room. Her footfalls echoed, too loud, in the bare room. Steel walls, matt grey, steel floor to match.

She glanced up as she approached the table, which was bolted to the floor, the chairs too, noting the glass roof, the snipers clearly visible, guns aimed through small portholes... trained on the table she was about to sit at. She fell into the chair, covering her sudden increased fear by fiddling with her voice recorder, setting the mic in the centre of the table. It was probably a good thing that she couldn't see herself as the rear door opened and three men entered; she looked like a rabbit in the headlights.

Bryce Ulric, commonly known as The Wolf. Wrapped in chains, under armed guard, barely able to shuffle to the chair across from her, he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen, and the situation in no way dimmed his allure. Well over six feet tall, muscular, and with eyes that were almost emerald green, he was beyond striking and into the realms of 'stop your heart soon as look at him'. But it was his hair, his infamous mane, which drew and held the attention. He flicked the thick silver curls over his shoulder as he settled into his seat, and they both knew what effect he was having on her.

Eve looked away, shuffled papers and than looked at one of the guards who stood at Bryce's side, gun at the ready.

“Are the chains really necessary? You have snipers on the roof, armed guards at his side, and I'm sure there are other precautions I don't even know about. He'd be dead before he got out of his seat. The interview might be a few hours; can't the chains be removed?”

There was a great deal of looking from one guard to another and then the first man walked away a little, muttering into his microphone, listening to the piece in his ear. She noted Bryce's wide grin, got an uncomfortable flash image of a dog-like panting to go with it, and looked down.

Someone higher up had given the word, the chains removed with clear reluctance, the guards clearly unhappy, flinching as Bryce stretched out his arms. Eve noticed the length of his nails, tried not to think of them as claws, and he caught her glance.

“They cut them every morning. Do you believe they grow back overnight?”

It was a rumour she'd heard, but she wasn't going to get drawn into his games.

“Are you happy to begin the interview?” she asked, suddenly glad that the guards had chained his ankles to the securely bolted chair as Bryce stretched the length of his body, rolling his neck and stabbing her with his gaze.

“Sure.”

A lazy drawl, deep and sensual. She ignored the primal urge in her body and switched on the mic.

The silence became uncomfortable, Bryce loosing a low chuckle that had her blood pounding.

“Dunno where to begin, Evie?”

She didn't. Faced with the man who had been convicted of kidnapping and eating twenty four women of her age, all blondes, her mind had gone blank.

“Let me get ya started, huh?” Bryce leaned forward, placed both hands – so big, so cruel, and yet covered with a down of hair that she longed to touch - on the table, “Why? It's the question everyone wants to ask.”

“Yes, why not?” Eve tried to get back some control, “Why exactly did you kill those women? Why eat them? Why haven't you told anyone before?”

“Found ya voice, pretty lady? Ok, one at a time. Why'd I kill 'em? Because that's what you do when you hunt.”

“You considered those women to be prey animals?”

“Yep. Young, weak, but tender, ripe for the eating.”

He grinned, licked his lips and she was sure he was reliving his kills, his meals after. She couldn't help the shiver which coursed her spine. He leaned closer, the guards reaching for him, but he only whispered;

“Wondering what it feels like to be hunted down by an alpha male? What it's like to be caught, bound, helpless and ready to do anything to make it stop?”

As soon as he said it, the images, the urges, were in her head, behind her eyes. It was all too easy to imagine how he had charmed those women, ensnared them with his looks, his sensuality.

“But you never raped them, no sexual motives...?”

“That what they told you? That what the police told the people out there, cowering under their covers because the bogeyman was in their midst? Don't believe everything you hear, Evie.”

She wished he would stop using the pet name, one her boyfriend used. It felt horribly, attractively intimate.

“So you did rape them?”

Maybe she had a new line, something none of the others knew.

“Nope.”

“I'm confused...?”

“You weren't listening, little Evie. I told ya, them girls would do anything, offer anything in exchange for their lives.”

“They had sex with you, willingly?”

She didn't want to believe it, but with those shining green eyes on hers, the powerful scent of him in her nose, she knew he was telling the simple truth, his brief nod causing silver curls to fall about his face, distracting her.

“Gonna ask about the eating? Can ya face it, pretty little Evie?”

One of the guards spoke sharply, reminded Bryce to watch his manners. Bryce merely howled laughter.

“Aren't you scared of them?” They have all kinds of weapons trained on you. They know how powerful you are.” Eve asked, eager to get some unrehearsed answer from him

Bryce had killed three guards and one court reporter since his arrest, easily using his chains and shackles as weapons, He'd simply leaned forward and bitten the throat out of the reporter who got foolishly close.

“Let them have their moment, Evie. They'll see.”

“And what does that mean?”

Bryce shrugged, fell silent and Eve struggled on.

“Why did you choose to eat the women? From what you just told me, they gave you everything. Why kill them, eat them?”

“I'm always hungry after sex.”

He winked lasciviously and Eve tried to ignore the shriek of need from her lower regions, hammering her brain into concentration.

“Seriously, Mr Ulric...” - 'Bryce, please' – “Bryce, what drove you to eat your victims?”

“I am deadly serious, Eve. Do you have any idea what it is like to want something so badly every part of your body aches with need? Do you know what it is like to hunger after something to the point of madness?”

Eve had no intention of answering, but the longer she remained in his presence the more she could understand that desire.

“I think you do, sexy little Evie, I think you do.” He smiled, a slow lifting of his lips which revealed teeth just a little too long, a little too sharp, “That's why. I'm a wolf. I gotta hunt, and I eat what I hunt like a good little wolfie.”

“You truly believe you are a wolf?”

“Oh I know what all them doctors and shrinks will tell you, my Evie, but don't you listen. I am a wolf. Maybe I should prove it to you?”

It was a clear challenge and too easy for her to let slide.

“Maybe you should...”

What happened next took both seconds and hours. Bryce tensed, flexed, there was a rending metal screech and he was on his feet. A guard grabbed Eve, flung her behind him against the wall. Guns were hammering shots which caused deafening reverberation in the room. Eve fought to see, saw a blur of silver muscle and flashing white teeth. There was a scream, a wet ripping sound and a momentary pause as the remaining guards stared at their fallen colleague. Bryce leapt, hit the glass ceiling, punched through it with inhuman strength. He grabbed the two snipers, crashed their heads together, dropped them and looked back over his shoulder before disappearing into the night.

“See you soon, pretty little Evie.”

When the chaos had calmed, the statements been taken, the bodies removed, Eve packed up and prepared to go home, drained, tearful, shivering cold, in shock. She headed for her car, turning up the hood of her cherry red coat...

Hank and Grace - For the BFF prompt 'I will always love you'

Grace felt a flush of warmth, both on her face and in her heart upon opening the oven door. It wasn't any old oven. This had belonged to another woman, many years before, a keen cook. It was big enough to roast a whole pig in one go, though Grace mostly used it for the pizzas Hank loved so much. It turned them just the right shade of golden-brown, crisped them perfectly. Admittedly, the oven burned the surrounding woodland like there was no tomorrow, but it was worth it. Especially today...

Hauling the basket of wood from the back doorstep – where Hank had left it before going hunting – Grace felt her back popping. Was she really getting so old? Hadn't it been only yesterday that she and Hank had spent nights in the woods, sleeping on the ground with only moonlight for a blanket? Throwing chopped logs into the depths of the fire beneath the oven, Grace recalled their fear. Back then they had known nothing of strength, of how to deal with the threats from woodland denizens. They'd been lost for so long, clinging to each other whilst wolf, fox, bear and worse had prowled ever closer to their rudimentary shelter.

She straightened, having poked and prodded the fire to suitably volcanic heat and closed the door, rubbing her back as she surveyed the laden table. Goodies covered it, cakes, jellies, candies and pies, creams, custards and delicacies of every description wafted saccharine scents into the slothful air, hanging near the ceiling in a body-plumping cloud of anticipation. Grace snatched up a cloth, headed to the window and wiped the sill clean. She hated when the icing spilled over and left runs in her pristine surfaces.

She glanced out of the window with its four square panes, overlooking a garden filled with sweet-scented pretties which lined a candy-striped path, hoping to catch first sight of Hank with his catch. She sighed, glancing over the room once more, her eagerness making her edgy, impatient. She wandered the room, smiling as she ran her hand over a piece of Hank's crafting. The chair stood before the oven and she often sat in it whilst stirring a pot or watching a roast, her hands loving the smooth feel of the bone armrests. Hank had made the chair from bones, one from each of his kills for the last ten years. Grace thought it made a striking centrepiece to her otherwise cute kitchen.

Whistling drifted through the still summer air, a familiar tune and her heart leapt hard in her breast. Hank! She flew to the door, wrenching it open, smelling ginger, brought out by the sun's warmth. Hank hopped the fence, a large sack thudding heavily against his broad back. How she loved him, would always love him. His strength, the way he protected her as she had once protected him, how his love for her was simple, shown in his constant providing, filling her oven whenever she asked, and even when she didn't. They knew each other so well.

He grinned, flop of hair falling into his blue eyes as he dumped the still wriggling sack at her feet.

“Oven ready?”

He kissed her, long, deep, sweaty, the kiss of a working man home from toil and she returned it, scented with cinnamon and syrup from her baking.

“It's ready. Come on in.”

The sack was dragged across the toffee shiny floor, Grace clasping her hands in eager knots, waiting for Hank to release the rope tie.

“Where did you catch this one?” she asked.

“The New Age shop on the high street. Reckons she's a white witch.”

Hank dumped a plump young woman onto the floor, hog-tied and staring around with wild eyes. She squirmed frantically, but Hank put an end to that, smacking her head with a handy rolling pin. Grace picked up the woman's limp hand, felt the little finger and nodded.

“Plenty of fat on this one. No need to wait.”

She wrenched open the oven door and Hank tossed the unconscious self-proclaimed witch inside. The door clanged shut and Grace sank into the bone chair, content to watch the roasting whilst Hank took a bath.

“I wanna be clean for the feast” he grinned, planting a lascivious kiss on Grace's bosom.

“Maybe you'll get some sugar tonight” Grace winked and went back to watching as the gingerbread house filled with the aroma of roasting meat.

Playground Lessons - TWP prompt

Michael let the taunts, the jibes, the threats and laughter slide over him. Often he imagined a great black cloud which acted as a layer between him and the rest of the world, a layer of protection. Once that was in place, he was safe, but it couldn’t protect him from everything.

Looking back, he’d been about five when trouble had found him. With his ice-blond hair and pale grey eyes, Michael had stuck out like a sore thumb. The children of the village tended to be dark haired and dark eyed. As soon as mum had started taking him to the local play-park, it became obvious he was never going to fit in. The girls seemed positively terrified of him, herding together and casting wary glances in his direction, running to their parents if Michael drew too close.

The boys were, of course, boys. They weren’t about to let some miniature freak upset the balance. Michael had quickly grown used to the biting, punching and kicking. He’d even endured the sand forced down his throat and flung into his eyes, all without comment. Those things were physical, ephemeral, but words were not. Words stuck in your head and played across the back of your eyes when you were trying to drift into sleep. Words circled your brain, often in bright neon and words had power.

Words could wound at point of impact and continue to wound forever. Words stayed, they could not be erased once spoken, once heard. Words hurt deep inside where the light couldn’t reach, where fear and doubt and self-loathing lurked in the shadows, waiting for a chance to consume words of power and feed them up to the brain. Words like ‘freak’, ‘monster’ and ‘we hate you, go away’. Those words played over and over at night, whilst the oak branches tapped out a counterpoint on the window and Mum’s exhausted snores hummed the melody.

It hadn’t been a special day, nothing unusual had happened. The kids weren’t being any rougher than usual and mum wasn’t wearing her worried or cross face. It had been an average day, until James decided the secret pinches and handfuls of sand in the face just weren’t cutting it for him on that particular day. He’d stood four-square in the center of the sandpit. His hands had balled into soft child-fists, planted firmly on his non-existent waist, legs spread for balance and chubby face screwed up in an imitation of his father’s frown.

“Go away.”

Michael had elected to ignore this new tactic, hoping this would discourage further exploration of a new tangent. Sand flew, blinding him, kicked by James’ trim feet. Michael remembered wondering how he could kick so much sand with such tiny feet.

“Go away. You can’t play here.”

Michael rose and shuffled over to the furthest corner of the sand-pit, hoping it would be enough, but it wasn’t to be.

Looking back from the great age of seventeen, Michael could afford a rueful grin, but James’ next actions had proved too much for the five year-old Michael. His antagonist had stomped across the pit, placed himself right in front of the silent Michael and pushed one step too far.

“Go away. You smell and your mum eats poo!”

Whether there was the burgeoning of understanding on that day, Michael was never sure, but something snapped, Perhaps it had to do with James attacking Michael’s beloved mother, a line that should never have been crossed, but it began in that moment. All the trouble that followed came from that single line. Michael had looked up slowly, fixed his strange eyes on James and quietly said;

“No.”

Twelve years later, Michael still didn’t know what had happened after that single word was spoken. He’d felt a rush of wind, a momentary dimming of his sight, like a shadow on the sun, then James was sprawled on his back, nose bleeding profusely and his blood was mingling with a stream of tears from eyes which were bruised with shock.

It hadn’t taken long for the two mothers to run over, each sweeping up their child and offering comfort. It took equally as little time for it to be clear Michael had suffered no damage whilst James continued to bleed and wail constantly. His mother had turned accusing eyes on Michael’s confused parent.

“Why’d he do that? James was just playing!”

“Michael never touched him.”

Author's note - This an extract from a much larger work, - as yet unfinished and unedited - but I thought it fitted neatly with the TWP prompt (and I haven't had time to write a new piece *wink*)

Drowse - For GBE2 and TWW

 She lay beside him, idly running her fingers over his skin. Sun streamed through the drawn curtains, tinged rose by the fabric. Propped on one elbow, drowsing in the warmth of a summer afternoon, not even the insect buzz of a light plane overhead could ruin the moment. The stillness, time stretched long and slow by the sleepy heat, had her mind wandering gently.

She twitched the curtain aside, revelling in the sunlight playing over his naked back, turning downy hair to shimmering wings, angelic, golden. He shifted, murmured sleeping nonsense and she smiled, curling close, laying her head against the smooth porcelain of his shoulder, felt him curve into her. A bee hummed, lost for a moment, bumping the window. She watched it come inside, wanted to reach out for that soft fuzz, feel the flutter of insubstantial wings, but it chose to whirr around the crystal hanging in the window before departing.

The bee's motions set the crystal to dancing and twirling. Rainbows scattered across the walls, painted their snuggled bodies with instants of ephemeral colour. She chased them with her fingertips, giggling softly, her tickling touch making his skin respond to her magic. He stirred, snaked an arm about her, pinned her close, still. She could feel his heart, the beat lazy, measured, helping her foster notions of drifting into his sleeping realm.

As her mind calmed, became a slow-falling jumble of images, she caught a final clear thought. Some moments were too perfect; no do-over needed.

Storage Space

Leo smiled at Kathy, she leaning forward just enough to show a little cleavage. Hardly correct behaviour for a librarian, but her slow wooing of him was comfortable, familiar, like the library. He let his gaze wander the entrance hall, Kathy chattering idly, stamping his books back in. This wasn't just a library; it was a Library, with capitals and all the bells and whistles.

Leo had a thing for libraries; always had. Since he'd clutched his first ever library membership card, he'd loved them. He wasn't a religious man, but libraries came as close to a church as he needed. They held sacred texts, books filled with wisdom, teaching, with laughter, tears and all of life. Over the ensuing years he'd visited hundreds of libraries, but none had the temple-like power of this; Shepherd’s Green Library of the People.

It was the largest building in town. Some long-ago patron had built it to educate and edify the locals and he'd clearly wanted to impress importance of a library and the knowledge it contained. Almost every architectural style had been thrown at the building. Each nook and cranny held some Greek or Roman styling, some Gothic darkness, some English folly; even a Russian-inspired reading garden which took on the air of Red Square in the winter, all snow-covered domes.

The entrance hall was also domed, red brick topped with the most delicate stained glass depicting flowers and animals for every letter of the alphabet. Leo remembered causing a stir once, his mother's face scarlet with embarrassment when he'd refused to move. He'd dumped himself on the marbled floor, cold beneath his summer heated body, and started to name all the pictures in the soaring imagery above.

Kathy's mother had been head librarian then and maybe that eight-tear old who'd been stunned by a large, bosomy woman plonking herself down beside him had added to his fondness for the daughter. Together they’d named every picture, Kathy's mum supplying the ones he didn't know. She'd hauled herself slowly to her feet, when they were done, and then allowed him to take out an adult book about 'Creatures of the World'. Fond memories...

“Leo?”

Kathy's voice called him back and he smiled, winked and rocked his hand gently back and forth when she asked if he fancied the movies on Friday.

“Always maybe!” but she giggled as he blew her a kiss and strode into the echoing depths of the adult library.

The familiar smell brought an unconscious smile to his lips; dust, ageing paper, newsprint. High, arched windows allowed light to fall in long sweeps of barred illumination, each bar dancing with motes. As a child he'd thought the dust motes to be fairies, and his adult self couldn't quite shake the hope that it was so. He walked through the alternate stripes of light imagining gossamer winged pretties fluttering out of his path, rippling back to the dance as he moved away.

He paused by the stairs to the upper floors. They swept, full on Scarlett and Rhett in blinding white marble framed with brilliantly polished ebony rails. No movie star could have found a better place to swish a ball-gown. The crystal chandelier tinkled gently in a slight breeze from windows far above and out of sight. He waited, listening for their music, the choir of the stars. He felt a presence at his elbow, noted a small boy there.

“Sir?”

Leo was surprised by the formality.

“Can I help you?”

The child grinned and looked up, eyes full of reflected glitter.

“Do you think the Snow Queen made it?”

Leo had the grace to consider the child's question with serious demeanour.

“It sure looks like ice crystals to me. Maybe she did.”

“What if one of them got into your heart? Would she get you?”

Leo dredged his memory, recalled the fairy story.

“Hmm, I suppose it's possible, but you know something?” Leo paused, gratified and a little surprised to find the child raptly awaiting his answer, “I think you are safe as long as you don't stand under it. She can't get you then, right?”

The boy considered, looked up, down and stepped back a couple of paces. His face broke into an enormous smile, his nod enthusiastic.

“Thank you, Sir! I can tell my sister we're safe now!”

He started to run off, Leo calling after him, trying to keep his voice down.

“Hey, kid, what's your name?”

“Kai.”

“A word to the wise, Kai. The librarian doesn't like loud noises and she can be scarier than the Snow Queen!”

Leo winked, Kai grinned, laughed and disappeared toward the children's section.

“I heard that, Leo Henderson!” Kathy was trundling past with a book cart, “Who were you talking to?”

“That kid...”

Kathy looked but the boy was gone, the children's section, newer, open-plan, all points visible at all angles, was empty. Leo frowned, wondering how the boy and his sister had gotten by without his seeing, but Kathy was shaking her head.

“Talking to yourself, Leo? You know what that's a sign of.”

He shrugged, turning to continue to choose his books.

“I bet you know a cure and I bet it involves close association with you.” he threw back with a chuckle.

Half an hour later, having chatted to Old Man Green in his accustomed spot, reading the newspapers, Leo managed to head into the stacks. They towered, engulfing all who walked their teeming shelves. Every second stack had a built in seat. The seat was inset, over-arched by the books and lined with, sadly faded and threadbare, red velvet cushions. Leo took one of the seats, happily ensconced between Kerouac and Le Carre, and tried to decide between the detective novel and the summer blockbuster.

Looking up he noted a shadow at the base of the opposite stack. He was stunned into immobility as a tiny figure, no taller than a pencil, stepped out from a gap between the shelves and floated a paper airplane at him. The figure, wearing a deep hood, impossible to tell gender, slipped back into the shadows and the plane batted Leo's ankle before dropping to the floor. He bent, retrieved it but remained doubled over, scanning the shadows and shelves. No sign of movement. The little figure, so evocative of a Borrower from tales of his childhood, had vanished. If not for the paper plane in his hand he would have thought himself dreaming.

He carefully unfolded the plane, noting it was a piece of library issue paper, supplied for making notes, ISBN numbers, titles and the like. It held a single sentence:

'Now you have seen us be here tonight at midnight.'

Leo's mind teemed with questions. Seen who? How was he to be in a locked library at midnight? Was this some joke perpetrated by Kathy? Why was he even considering trying to comply? His thoughts running over each other, Leo rose, thinking to go outside, get some air and clear his head. He stopped dead, sinking back into the seat.

In every direction figures filled his vision. There was Kai, and was that really Gerda beside him? The hood now removed, Arrietty and Pod stood near his feet. A young woman, fingers stained with ink, tumbling curls awry, smiled and nodded from a writing table. Was that really Jo March? A low clatter grew in intensity, a black horse galloping through the stacks, a true beauty. A man, tall, proud, an ornate sword at his side, a slender coronet on his brow, walked with a delicate young woman, a third figure, another woman with clear kinship to the man, whispered in his ear. Arthur? In the shadows those less taken with light moved, the shifting form of an infamous count, the lumbering pathos of created creature, the confused howl of a man turned wolf.

A single form detached from the thousands, approached and bent to sit in the opposite alcove.

“You know me?”

Leo nodded, unable to drag his eyes away from the flowing beard, the hat, the smoke rings dancing through each other, changing colours as he puffed on a long slender pipe. Was there anyone who would not recognise Gandalf?

“We need your aid, young man. There is an alcove unlike the rest. It was created by the founder of the library, Xavier de Cruse. Between F and G. Sit and turn. Wait there until midnight.”

Before Leo could reply the tall man, erect, in no need of the staff he bore, dressed in gleaming, purest white, rose and walked away.

In a daze, Leo wandered to the aisle, gazed down at the appointed seat and decided he was actually going crazy. All about him walked literary characters, gleaned from every book he had ever read and thousands he didn't even know. Not a single patron of the library appeared to be seeing as he did. They went about their business as if it were any other day. He felt unutterably weary, dropping into the alcove seat with unfeigned relief. With a species of acceptance, the kind which allows you to drop the burden onto others who know better, Leo tried to turn left in the seat, was jolted when nothing happened and was almost too numb to react when Sam wandered by, rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb to the right. Leo complied, the seat rolled smoothly and deposited him in a single person sized room within the stacks.

He must have slept because he was deeply disorientated when the seat revolved and returned him to the library, now lit by a sliver of a moon, deep shadows sliding across the now empty floor. Empty of all but a long and winding double line of literary characters. He went unresisting, allowing Wendy to draw him to his feet, Peter swooping and soaring before them, urging them on. Leo passed between the lines, all those familiar and often beloved faces now grave.

Finally Wendy let his hand fall away, leaving him in a circle of characters, Gandalf once more taking the role of spokesman. A smile and a nervous laugh broke the tension, Leo unable to be stern as Pooh and Tigger dragged a chair to the circle and ushered him to sit down. Gandalf gave an indulgent smile and then his face stilled.

“Forgive us, Leo. We were perhaps a little eager. You can know nothing of your family, your purpose. Will you allow me to explain?”

“I have a choice?”

Gandalf grew instantly stern, Leo suddenly understanding just how powerful a character this was, one to endure the test of time.

“There is always choice, Leo. Your time of choosing comes tonight. May I continue?”

Leo nodded, too awed to trust his voice.

“You are a De Cruse. You know of course, that you were orphaned, given into the care of locals and brought up as their own, but this time was always to come. You have always felt that this library was special, have you not?”

Leo nodded, caught a few appreciative smiles from the assembled crowd.

“It is more special than you realise. Xavier De Cruse built the library as a storage space, but he was an extraordinary man. He realised that the characters humans believe in, truly and deeply with all their heart, take on a reality of their own. Unable to be a part of life, unseen by most but those with the gift, these characters were left to wander with no place to be.

Gradually, with nowhere to go, nothing to protect them, characters were beginning to fade, to disappear. Do you know what happens to characters who are forgotten?”

Leo shook his head, but deep inside he had a horrible inking that he did know.

“They fade into nothing, Leo. It is as if they have never been. For every character that fades away a book dies. It will never be read again. Those characters will never inspire, teach, give laughter or sorrow to a human mind. Each such loss is detrimental to humanity, to the collective intellect....”

Gandalf paused, sighed and shook himself free of grief-filled memory. A shivering sigh ran around the assembled imaginaries and Leo was not immune. He wanted to shed tears for all those lost thoughts, words and emotions which could never be recalled.

“They are gone forever?” he asked, fighting a heavy lump in his throat.

“Eternally” Gandalf replied, “But let us move on. Xavier gave us a place to be, a safe haven where we will always be surrounded by books and people who love books and all they offer. We do not forget those who are lost. What is done cannot be changed, but the future is in your hands, Leo.”

“Mine?”

“Take these.” Leo was handed a manilla folder and a key by Sherlock Homes, this time barely registering the strangeness, “Read, open the bank box, and do what you must with the knowledge you will gain. For now we have one question of you.”

Leo felt every character move fractionally toward him, their eagerness for his answer palpable in the air.

“Leo de Cruse, do you vow to protect the Library and the characters held within until such time as you shall pass the duty to your chosen heir?”

He didn't hesitate. He had no idea what the folder, the bank box contained, but every fibre of his being knew this was his place in the world.

“I so vow”

With the cheers of thousands ringing in his ears, Leo began his new life...

Upset - GBE2 prompt

I don't do this very often, but I'm going to post something that's not a story! Allow me to give you a moment to recover from your shock. Better? Good, good. I assure you that there is a story associated with this week's GBE2 prompt, but this came to mind first, so here we go.

Have you ever considered one of the oddest things we do, cry over fiction? Kids do it, women are famous for it, and men pretend they don't do it, but we all do! For the love of Mike, I even cried over Piglet's Big Movie (I am currently rolling my eyes at my own soppiness, I promise.) From Old Yeller via Bambi's mother and on through Jane Eyre to The Green Mile, it's like a flippin' river – Darn, now I'll be singing that for a week! Might as well make it the accompanying video - and all over what? People, animals, that don't exist!

Here are just a few of the times I have cried myself stupid over non-existent characters -

1 – Jane Eyre – From the minute her friend, Helen, dies at their school to 'Reader, I married him'. I'm a blubbering wreck!

2 – Old Yeller – Just don't even go there.

3 – The Green Mile – John Coffey.  His death is so powerful, especially for someone like me who writes to a Death Row prisoner. From '… Like the drink, only not spelled the same.' to 'Heaven, I'm in heaven', I'm a soggy puddle.

4 – Meet Joe Black – An odd one maybe, but I lost it completely at the end. Laugh, feel free, but I was sitting there, streaming tears, snot and hitching sobs, yelling at the screen “Why didn't you go with him!!” 

5 – Criminal Minds – There is one episode (although I've cried at a few) that slays me every time. It's from season one and it has never been bettered, much as I love the entire series. It's called 'Riding the Lightning' and I defy any mother, or any woman actually, to watch it without dissolving into a pile of salty sobbing.

All over a fictional character... And that's the point, isn't it? I'm not a fool. I can tell the difference between reality and fiction, but I still believe. Therein lies the rub, as someone said. I've never lost the ability to suspend my disbelief. I don't just watch these things, I'm in there with them, experiencing and believing right there, in that moment. I think my ability to believe, coupled with both my hyperactive imagination and those moments of truly supreme writing skills on the part of others, come together in the moment and trigger my 'Time to lose it' response.

However, there is another side to this which occurs to me as I write. Some of you will be aware that I have been a life-long fan of wrestling. I followed certain wrestlers for a long, long time. I don't know any of these guys personally, but how about this... I cried so hard over the death of Eddie Guerrero, Chris Benoit, Owen Hart and more. Cried like I'd lost family members. Cried over men who didn't even know I existed! I did it when Richard Harris died too, so it's not confined to wrestlers.

These people become real to us, close to us, a part of our lives and we grow to care about them. Their loss is as real to us as would be that of a, albeit distant, family member, because they are a part of our extended 'tribe'. I would be willing to take wagers on most of you having cried over such a death, maybe a sporting hero, or an actor who affected you deeply. (Richard Harris was a convoluted one, but basically he played King Arthur in Camelot and his final speech was beautiful.)

So here's to us. Long may we continue to believe, to extend our love and caring to those we will never meet but who remain a part of our larger tribe, distant but still able to touch our hearts and our tear ducts!

Accident - TWP prompt

Ali blew on her frozen fingertips, staring gloomily at the pile of past due bills on her kitchen table. The longest freeze she could remember continued to pile snow outside the window of her rented room, rent which was heading into its fourth month of non-payment. A year since the factory closed, six months since the last of her savings had gone on utilities, no more than a month 'til she was out on the street. In the ice. In the freezing winds. In the snow.

She heard Mr Trent shove more brown envelopes under her door, held herself still and silent whilst he called her name, threatened to have her evicted, promised bailiffs, even police. When he tramped away she forced herself to pick up the envelopes, stacking them atop the pile, dropping back into her seat, trying to come up with a plan, any spark of an idea to get out from under.

Her eyes fell on a slender blue envelope. It was unusual enough for her to ease it from the scary brown demands for payment, threats of legal action and what she was sure was another 'Why won't you tell me what's going on?' letter from her mother.

“Because you only want to gloat, tell me you knew I couldn't cope alone and then drag me back to that hell-hole you call home.” Ali muttered, staring at the blue envelope.

It was handwritten in copper-plate script, incongruous when everything else was printed, impersonal, run off on automated machines. Curious, despite her woes, Ali slit the envelope open, unfolded the letter within, also hand-written, and read it through twice, not quite able to believe what she was reading.

'Dear Miss Marshall,

Our company, Deermont Pharmaceuticals, would like to offer you the opportunity to participate in paid trials for our latest skincare products. We are aware that you have offered similar services to our sister company, Ultramed, in the past. We value people who are willing to help further our research and try to offer such people the first and prime opportunities to do so as and when they arise. If you are interested in participating once more, please read the enclosed schedule and payment leaflet. Trials begin on the third of February at the above address. We look forward to working with you.

Yours sincerely...'

Ali read the leaflet, her heart leaping at the amount of zeroes after the 10 in the payment section, and started packing. The gods were smiling and she wasn't going to spit in their faces.

The third dawned bright, freezing and buried under two feet of new snow. Ali caught the 6 am bus into town, then sat snug in a corner seat on the underground, dreaming idly of being debt free and maybe even moving somewhere new, maybe training for a career. She alighted at Belmont station, walked just over a mile to a massive industrial estate and followed the site map to locate Deermont Plaza.

It turned out to be somewhat less impressive than its grand name, a three storey cement block with tinted windows and an empty lot out front. The reception area was empty, but a note pinned to the desk asked participants to follow the red arrows on the walls. Ali duly wandered up a flight of stairs, wondering why it was so quiet. There wasn't so much as a hint of life although rows of doors stood locked, their glass windows revealing lab after lab of equipment Ali had no names for.

Through a door, down a flight and then out the back of the building. The back lot was as empty as the front. Didn't anyone drive to work here? Another arrow sign flapped limply on a single storey building beyond, grey and dilapidated. Ali felt a twinge of unease, almost turned around. Sod the bills, this was too creepy.

“Miss Marshall?”

A young man in a slightly dingy lab-coat hurried out of the building, smiling and beckoning her on. Ali noted the ink slowly spreading on his coat pocket, a busted pen no doubt. His hair was dishevelled, a phial poked out of one fist as he held out his other hand to shake hers.

“I do apologise. We had a bit of a breakthrough this morning and everyone is inside” he jerked a nod toward the low building, “Please, this way. I'll show you to your room.”

He was sweet, slightly scatty in a nerdy way and Ali was charmed by him, listening to his excited chatter about some chemical as he led her into the building, down more corridors than there seemed room for; a Tardis effect, and finally flung open a steel door with a glass observation panel at eye-level.

She was relieved to see the room within was bright and clean. The young man intimated she should settle in, that he'd be back later, and hurried away. Ali dumped her case on the table, bounced experimentally on the bed – surprisingly soft – and then caught sight of the welcome pack on the dresser. She was soon munching on luxury chocs and sipping a rather nice white wine. It wasn't going to be so bad if this was the way they treated their guinea pigs. She flicked on the wall-mounted flat-screen, found a suitably romantic film and promptly drifted into the most restful sleep she'd had in months.

She awoke feeling decidedly woozy, her head spinning and she had a strange ache in her arms. She tried to sit up, instantly struggling when she found her wrists in restraints. She shook her head, trying to clear her wonky vision, vaguely made out the lab guy leaning over her, tried to speak and found she had no voice. She felt him undo her right arm, lift it. Her vision cleared momentarily and she saw two things.

First, he was wearing some kind of gas mask. Second, her arm was covered in long green tendrils. At the end of each tendril a tiny eye blinked. Ali found her voice, began screaming, just as a disembodied voice came over the room's tannoy.

'It might have been an accident but it's working so we're going to feed more gas into the room. She could get strong enough to break free before the change is complete. Get out, Paul.'

Author's note - Anyone who has watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show will hopefully know why I used a picture of Frank in his lab for this piece *wink* If you don't know, go watch it *grin*

Roadhouse Blues - BFF &TWW prompts

Nicky didn't like highway lights. They passed with the monotonous regularity of a metronome and with similarly hypnotic effect. She gripped the wheel hard enough to hurt, strengthening her grip, glued her eyes to the centre line and flicked on the radio. Late night DJs didn't help. Low, smooth voices whispering about pulling over to rest accompanied by easy listening muzak. She shrugged, stretched out her neck. Why did this route seem longer every time? Her tired mind played with images of demons moving the exit sign further and further until she was driving in an endless loop, always playing catch-up.

She came awake with a jolt, a car horn blaring, lights blinding her. She swerved sharply into the right lane, scared into wakefulness and tears were close when the exit sign loomed into view. She swung off, clamped to the wheel, bolt upright, eyes staring, unblinking lest she fall into sleep again. Yes, she needed to reach the roadhouse, needed to detach from her life, but not permanently.

The guy behind reception grunted, handing over the key to number 71. It was all the acknowledgement she ever received, despite her three years of monthly visits. The anonymity soothed her. Allowed her to park the car in front of the bungalows and stroll through the darkened lot with its broken out lights with confidence. She couldn't be seen and she was unknown. No lights showed in the block of eight stopovers, dingy hovels without personality. She let herself in, closed the door, pulling the nicotine-stained blinds as she moved about the room.

It always took a few minutes for her mind to let go of 'wife and mother' mode. Dumping her case on the sagging bed, which she would later spray for bugs before covering with a clean sheet, she turned on the shower, let it run. Ten minutes was the average before it warmed enough to prevent hypothermia. She laid out her Nicole clothes. Nicky was the mum who had run the kids to school, packed their lunches, cooked, cleaned, played nursemaid. Nicky was the wife who had lain in bed, obediently closed her eyes and never looked while he poked at her, dipped and left. Nicky who never felt clean afterwards. Who'd always sat under the shower, crying for her emptiness where she couldn't be seen or heard.

Nicole was who Nicky could never be. Nicole wore short skirts, garter belts, stockings, skyscraper heels and scarlet lipstick. Nicole knew about dildos and handcuffs and lube and positions the Karma Sutra had never heard of. Nicole was wild, free, unencumbered by guilt and doubt. Nicky entered the shower and Nicole exited, washed clean of 'Mrs' and 'Mum'. Nicole sashayed where Nicky slunk. Nicole laughed where Nicky kept silent. Nicole smoked, drank straight whiskey and had just landed a highly paid job in the city. Tonight was Nicole's debut to the world, Nicky's exit.

She felt a surge of excitement, a sexual heat spreading through her body when he knocked. She let him in, went to him eagerly. She was enthusiastic, patient, crazy, everything he needed for the next two hours. She accepted his payment, even allowed him a sentimental moment, a kiss when she explained their monthly assignations would be no more. She promised to send him someone new, when she was settled in her new situation. He left smiling, satisfied and she popped the last instalment into the waiting envelope on the bedside table, prepared to wait for the last time.

She strained to hear. Felt a rush of adrenalin when a car pulled in, but the babble of voices, reduced to gobbledegook by the walls between, told her it wasn't who she waited for. She tidied her hair, fixed her lipstick, wondering at the dusky eyes, alight with life in a pale, porcelain face. Only a matter of hours now. She'd kept her vows. 'Til death do us part'. The kids were grown, gone. Time to move on along.

Lost in her thoughts, Nicole startled at the light tap on the door. A familiar figure stood outside. She cocked her head enquiringly. He nodded. She handed over the envelope, shook his hand and watched him walk away, the moon glinting once off the revolver tucked into his belt as he bent to get in the car. She looked down, gazed at the image he had pressed into her hand during their shake. A Polaroid of a man, face down, single gunshot to the temple. She was free, and she'd bought a very expensive client list from a madam who was retiring.

She grabbed up her case, slipped out to the car, started it up and drove out of the lot. Nicole grinned, chuckled quietly as she flipped the lid on a beer, lit a cigarette and turned on the radio to hear an old Doors number...

'Let it roll, baby, roll'

Gina - Wordless Wednesday

Come on... this is me... wordless? Yeah right! The reason I chose this photo was down to Facebook. There's a trend for posting old photos of yourself as your avatar right now. That made me think of this photo of me, around 1985. At the time I was 'babysitting', not that we ever called it that in front of clients, a lovely lady with Alzheimers. I went once a week, stayed for four hours and it allowed her husband an afternoon off. I'd been skiing and this was a photo taken on the balcony of our hotel by my partner. When I showed it to my client he smiled in that misty 'I remember when..' way and told me  I reminded him of Gina Lollobrigida. I still remember that because it made my day! (Cant say I see it, but hey, I'll take what I can get!)

Award time!

Firstly I'd like to say thank you to Pam, my favourite pirate, for the award. Now  I have to say some things about me and then decide on who to pass the award to. That's the toughest bit as I love all my blogging friends! So if I don't choose you,  it's only because you either have the award or I'm saving you for a different one, not because I don't love you *wink* So, onward...

Seven things about me, huh?
1) I dance like a dervish to Ricky Martin whilst vacuuming.
2) I once kissed Anthony Stewart Head.
3) I adore French musicals.
4) I've been obsessed with Jim Morrison since I was seven.
5) I believe in fairies.
6) I have written and completed four novels, none of which I believe to be 'The One'.
7) I sleep with a stuffed wolf and wish he was real (Don't tell him I said he wasn't!)

These are a few of my favourite blogs (Sung to the tune of my favourite things!)
1) The Story - Claudia
2) Stoopin' it in the Suburbs - Laura
3) Bloggity Blogger - Darlene
4) From the Mom Cave - Amy
5) Loup's Life Lessons - Loup
6) Sylvie Says - Sylvie
7) The Heart-shaped Muffin - Feathered Pen

Congrats all and have fun passing on the love *grin*