Bright Blessings

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

2012-02-24T02:25:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-23T14:14:00.000-08:00

“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

2012-02-23T02:36:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-20T13:50:00.000-08:00

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'

2012-02-18T14:08:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-16T14:16:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-16T07:18:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-15T13:36:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-09T02:30:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-04T04:58:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-02T06:08:00.000-08:00

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

2012-02-01T12:04:00.000-08:00

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!

2012-02-01T01:35:00.000-08:00

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*

Angel Biscuits - A random story (Tasty Tuesday... tenuously?)

2012-01-31T16:57:00.000-08:00

Edna lit the paired candles on the mantle, enjoying the fire's warmth on her shins, logs blazing in the hearth below. Holly and ivy entwined about the windows and festooned picture frames, mistletoe hanging hopefully above the front door. She surveyed the decorations, wondering if they would be as green, as red or white a month from now, mid-winter.

She twitched her heavy drapes, shutting out the draughts trying to whistle under the shrunken, ill-fitting frames. They brought the scent of pine, of icy air which stayed with her as she moved about the room. The snow was deep, deepening, would perhaps be above her sills by morning. A day to stay home, to bake, to prepare for the long haul to spring, and long it could be, out in the mountains, far from the village, where her family had tended goats since forever.

She enjoyed the season. The ground became pristine, virgin, ready to be ploughed anew. It lay under white blankets, sleeping, restoring strength, and all about was hushed, whether in respect or expectation she couldn't have said with certainty. Beneath that frozen crust, far from the dripping icicles and silenced waters, life slumbered. All that promise, the hushed stillness barely containing the spark of renewal, it gave her a sense of well-being she had never really been able to explain.

Edna made her way up the narrow stairs to her bed under the eaves. Settled, nestled deep beneath her blankets, the fur her late husband, Nathaniel, had treated her to, she watched the soft, encompassing blizzard slip by her window. Nat had loathed her habit of leaving the bedroom window open, but it had been one of the few battles she'd fought.

The expanse of night, stretching further than any eye could see, the moon and stars sailing an unknown ocean of darkness, somehow lulled her. She thought maybe it played a part in making her realise how small her life was, how insignificant her problems. Out there a universe was fighting for every star birth and death on a scale beyond her imagination and that was comforting. She let the emptiness send her to rest.

In a month the local children would be arriving, expecting their traditional angel cookies. Edna didn't really know when the practice had started, but her family had baked, decorated and given away thousands of the tiny, sweet angel cookies for at least a hundred years. She wasn't about to let them down, although she did allow herself a small moment of fretting as she mixed and rolled dough. She had no kin, no-one to take over. Would the habit die or should she choose someone from the village to take over the legacy.? Would they?

Perhaps that was for another time. The baking of the biscuits needed to be done with a light hand, a lighter heart. Edna mixed icing, red and green, found her multi-coloured sprinkles and got to work. Beneath her practised hands faces came alive. Chubby cherubim winked, serene seraphim smiled and archangels appeared to give voice. Each angel biscuit found a home in a carefully wrapped square of silver or gold tissue, sealed with an icing kiss.

The noise bypassed Edna at first. Concentrating on a particularly recalcitrant cherub who wanted to blink rather than wink, she assumed the faint scratching to be the wind in the shrubs by the front door. Only when a low moan reached her, accompanied by the scratching did she lay down her piping bag and approach the door. She was old, but no fool, her hand hesitating on the latch. She snatched up a sturdy walking cane from the basket by the door, then opened it.

The bite of the wind was ferocious, and she had to squint against the blast of snow which tried to blind her. She stepped back sharply at the feeling of pressure on her foot and instantly realised the hump of snow there was no drift, but a person, a man to judge by the hand, blue and clawed.

It took all her strength and the remainder of his to drag him over the threshold and to get the door slammed shut on the weather which had tried to claim him. He lay at her feet, slowly puddling snow onto her freshly swept tiles, barely conscious. Edna knew she couldn't lift him and he surely couldn't move himself. With a sharp straightening of her apron, a look of resolute determination on her face, Edna got on with the task in hand. That was something she was good at.

Over the next hour, Edna used just about every cushion in her home to prop the man into a semi-upright position, slipping them under his head and shoulders one at a time. Once she had him that far she started warming pans, filling them with hot coals and packing them around him. He began to steam gently, but seemed no closer to consciousness. Edna steeled herself, widened the ring of warming pans to allow some room, lowered to the floor on popping knees, and began to strip the stranger out of his clothes.

Parts were frozen solid, the cuffs of both trousers and coat almost brittle, covered in a layer of ice. By the time she had him down to what appeared to be a woollen undergarment, Edna decided to let modesty kick in. She hung the clothes on a rack close by the hearth and went back to work. This time she layered a couple of blankets over him, placed two warming pans on top and then added more blankets. She was gratified to see the faintest tinge of colour coming back to his lips. She felt that meant he wasn't going to die on her. What she would have done with a dead body she didn't want to contemplate.

Aware she was now in for a waiting game, Edna began her secondary assault. She lifted the lid on a pot on the stove. The scent of herbs and meat flooded the room. Edna's winter stew was legendary, a recipe handed down from her grandmothers over generations. It was rich, thick and Nat had always said just a single spoonful could cure all that ailed you. Time to test his theory. She filled a bowl, grabbed a spoon and carefully lowered herself down beside her unexpected guest.

It took her three days in the end. From those first dribbles, Edna prising his mouth open with her fingers and dripping sustenance into him, to the day he looked at her with clear eyes and asked where he was, she fed him stew, porridge laced with honey and cream, and bread so soft and white it was surely the origins of ambrosia. The ice thawed out of his veins, his skin, and finally his mind. He sat beside her hearth for two more days, explained he had been hunting, become turned around in the storm. He'd slipped, banged his head on a hidden rock, lain on the mountainside for a day and night. He'd finally dragged himself to her door through the storm.

She shrugged aside his fulsome praise, his protestations that he should do something for her, he owed her his life. She told him to go home, relieve the fear of his family, bring his children for angel biscuits in a few days time. She wrapped him in Nathaniel's old coat, second best scarf and extra socks. She gave him a flask filled with stew – and a little something warming, she'd winked – and sent him on his way with his thanks still ringing in her ears. She chuckled a little a his foolishness. What had he expected? That she leave him on the doorstep to freeze to death?

A week later children began to arrive. A steady stream came to Edna's door, always with parents and she remembered them all. It seemed strange to her that those little faces, expectant and innocent had grown to bring new faces, just as eager, whilst she felt time had almost stilled, her changes invisible, unnoticed. She handed out angel biscuits and hot chocolate to the children, hot wine to the adults. Most of them wanted angel biscuits too, the polite adult refusing to ask, the child eager behind eyes lined with age.

On the last day came the largest group. Twenty children ran to her door and she could not hide her surprise. Each carried great bouquets of winter blooms tied with ribbons which flew bright and red against the snow. Coming behind were the adults, led by her mid-winter visitor. She was puzzled to realise he was the only man. Mothers followed him, their children running back to hide in their skirts, overcome by the excitement of events. She paused under the mistletoe, frowned slightly at his approach. His grin was broad. In his hands, hands he held out to her, was a book. Leather bound, heavy, more paper than she had seen in her life. Why was he offering it to her?

Did she know she talked in her sleep, he asked. He'd dozed beside her during those long days of his thaw, but once she had slept, he waking. She'd seemed distressed, her mumbled words hard to decipher, but he had. He had brought her the answer. When he had told the women of the village that there would be no-one to continue the angel biscuits they all begged to be given the honour. It was not for him, but for Edna to choose, he had said. So they had brought her a book, a book for her recipes, her stew, her porridge, her angel biscuits, written down so they could not be forgotten. And the women came forward, asking her to teach them.

Overwhelmed she accepted his strong arm about her waist, allowed herself to take strength, one so used to giving it, and she had smiled, bemused, but joyful. He had glanced up, taken a wicked twinkle to his eyes and kissed her cheek before she could bat him away. 'And a kiss you shall have every day, though they will never pay my debt.' he had whispered.

Purple Ribbons - BFF prompt

2012-01-30T07:23:00.000-08:00

Chloe came very close to throwing the trainer as far and hard as her anger would allow. Common-sense prevailed. Yes, the heel was hanging off, but better half a shoe than none. She steeled herself to do violence to a hundred pounds-worth of trainer, gripped the rubber hard and yanked. Throwing the broken heel at the nearest tree wasn't enough, but it helped a bit. She groped in her mini backpack, aware just how unprepared she was, dragged out a pair of thin, leather gloves and shoved one into the shoe. It would serve until she found the trail again. Worse things could happen than a blister on her heel.

She stood up, wriggling her toes, shifting her foot, trying to get it comfortable, all the while surveying the track. What the hell had possessed her? All of a sudden she'd had the urge to go off-road. Maybe it was boredom; she did run that trail every morning. Who knew? Whatever it had been, she was now well and truly lost. She'd tried to run back along her route but somehow she'd ended up even more turned around. The path, little more than an animal track now, barely visible in the lush summer grass and foliage, branched frequently.

“Ok” Chloe announced to the flora and fauna – at least she assumed there were fauna in here making trails - “Once more unto the breach...”

Going back didn't seem to be helping so forward ho. She had some idea that if she kept turning one way she'd end up in a circle, so alternating rights and lefts might be a better option. She set off, limping slightly, wincing as pebbles and sticks tried to take up residence in her holey shoe, trying not to look up. The clouds were lowering, the sky darkening, the light waning. Time to dig up her scant camping knowledge, her even thinner layer of woodsman-ship. She might actually have to spend the night.

No watch, no cell, not even a map! What the hell was she thinking? Chloe jogged along, alternating her turns as they appeared, the trail occasionally widening into a track, only to close in again, disappear under bushes, dead-end in boggy ground, split yet further. She couldn't help thinking she was going deeper. The final straw was the reappearance of a shrub covered in pale white blossom. She knew she'd passed it at least once, maybe twice; it had a purple ribbon fluttering from one branch.

Chloe idly plucked the ribbon, vaguely wondering if some family had passed here, some child mourning the loss of a favourite frippery, running it over her fingers, considering her position. She had to find somewhere dry and sheltered. It may have been a glorious day, but the night would be chilly, maybe even wet. She walked now, running likely to cost her the sight of somewhere suitable. Also, much as she hated to admit it, proud of her fitness levels, she was damn tired. Stress probably. Maybe sleep was best. A chance to regroup, start afresh in the morning. With twilight closing in the chances of missing the right route were too great.

Eventually she found a hollow in a fallen tree. It leant against a stony rock-face, created something approximating a tent, and she was too tired to look for anything better. She crawled in amongst the dried leaves, wrinkled her nose against the faint smell of earth and mould, then setted her back to the bark. Her pack served as a pillow and she slept before she had time to think.

Pain. Followed sharply by panic, tension in her body, her mind alert the instant she woke. Her back and neck screamed as she hurtled to her feet, stiff from the uncomfortable night on the forest floor. It took her a minute to work out why she had woken so suddenly. Another moment and she would never have known, but she was fast enough to notice the faintest odour, a whiff of sweat and something more, tantalisingly familiar, but she couldn't place it at first.

Grabbing her pack, shaking her head to clear sleepy residuals, Chloe began to chase the scent. She knew sweat. That was easy. It also meant a person had passed by, probably a man from the power of it, the ability to linger. The underlying smell was driving her crazy. It didn't really matter. If she could find the man she could find her way out, but her mind wouldn't let it go. Later, thinking about it, she never knew why she didn't call out, yell for help. Something held her silent and when she rounded a bend, saw a new fork in the path, wider and smoother now, she was glad.

Another of those pale-blossomed bushes stood to the left. If she hadn't already seen that flash of colour the previous day maybe she wouldn't have noticed. Maybe it was just luck, coincidence that she had seen, handled one purple ribbon and here was another. It hung limply, barely visible, wrapped tightly around a branch and smothered with blossoms, but she saw it. Thoughtfully, fingering this second ribbon, drawing the other from her pocket, where she had dumped it without any conscious thought, Chloe wondered.

The sweat scent had long since died away. She presumed she had fallen too far behind. The man ahead knew his way, she was fumbling, guessing, hoping. She didn't have to guess any longer. Maybe he didn't know, or didn't care. A long trail of some white powder meandered ahead of her, some burst package, perhaps groceries, marking the passage of this man... who smelled of sweat and hair oil. It had been so long since her grandpa had died, so many years since she'd smelled his hair oil on the chair-backs, but it came to her now, and it made her cautious.

Grandpa had scared the living crap out of her over the first twelve years of her life. She never really knew if he'd meant to be funny, if he'd thought she found his antics hilarious, but chasing her around his farmyard with a variety of freshly slaughtered animal heads, waving an axe and yelling that he was comin' for her had made him the stuff of her nightmares. She hadn't been sad when he died, just relieved she'd never have to smell blood and hair oil again. Now, now it gave her pause and she slowed in her pursuit of the man ahead.

She'd been too focussed on getting home, to a bath and clean clothes, food and drink. She'd forgotten every single thing she'd been taught about staying safe, a woman alone. Yes, she was going to follow him home, or wherever he was going, in the hope of getting out of this mess, but slowly now, with caution and forethought. She started following again, her eyes on the track, her hand wrapped tight around the large rock she'd plucked from the verge.

Ten minutes brought her within the scent of applewood smoke and the sound of someone doing something watery. She sidled up, creeping through the bushes, parting them enough to let her see what turned out to be a house, decrepit, unloved. The yard was filled with a strange assortment of drying animal skins, the corpses of ancient cars and scrap of every description. She got her first look at the man, as scruffy as his yard, bearded, overalled, hair oiled back from a heavy brow. He bent with his back to her. She could see some sort of tub, water splashing frantically. Washing his dog maybe.

The next moment had her clapping her hand to her mouth to silence herself. The man stood, hauling a young girl from the tub by her arm. She was young, no more than ten, emaciated, hair matted, eyes sunken, bruised with pain and terror. She stood naked and shivering violently, the man surveying her with the kind of smile Chloe knew too well. She'd seen it on every predatory man at every club she'd ever been too.

She didn't think, simply threw. The stone left her hand, flew in a perfect arc and hit the man in the temple with the kind of satisfying thud you only hear in the movies. He crumpled, hit the floor and Chloe was already running, the girl frozen in place. Chloe scooped her up, cradled her to her chest and kept running. The other side of the yard brought her to a car. It was about the only clean item in the yard, the keys still dangling. She bundled the girl into the passenger seat, dived in, turned the keys and began backing up. The track behind had to go somewhere, anywhere. As they hit a bend and Chloe swung the car around, she watched the man get up, start running, saw him snatch a rifle from against the wall of the house. She gunned the engine...

Later, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot chocolate, she listened to the officer. She'd made it to the next town, headed straight to the police station. Now she heard the young officer telling her the child had been missing for two years, her parents were on their way, the man was being brought in. None of it seemed real, and she was glad when a female officer brought the little girl over. That she could deal with.

The girl smiled shyly, her words halting, uncertain, as she tried to express her thanks, each attempt punctuated by an attempt to push her hair out of her eyes. Chloe reached into her pocket, a quiet sense of inevitablity passing over her as she held out the purple ribbons.

“Hey, maybe these will help? I think they might be yours.”

The girl's delicate, dirt-encrusted fingers closed around the tattered scraps, her smile brilliant in her begrimed face.

“My best ribbons!”

Fall of a year - GBE2 & BFF prompts

2012-01-29T14:37:00.000-08:00

Lily watched and waited. Wintertime was always hard. So barren, so dark, so sleepy. Beautiful as the ice patterns on her windows were, they couldn't compete with the need, the urgent desire for green shoots and pale lemon sunshine. Those snow flurries, building softly to drifted dunes waiting for the child within to roll the head of the snowman, they could not hold a candle to the ripple of fluffy catkins and dangling lamb tails. The crispness of the air, sharp in the lungs, eliciting dragon breath on daily walks, even that could not fight the lust for gentle showers, swathes of cherry blossom and the scent of bluebells. Wintertime would pass, but she wished it away faster.

Springtime came. Lily looked back to winter and knew it had been good, but this was better. Spring's youthful exuberance made her heart race, her smile widen, as it raced across the woods, the fields, the parks, the village, and the people. They looked up now, embraced the breeze, smiled at nodding snowdrops and grinned when flamboyant daffodils and blousy tulips raised their faces to the sun which peeked from tattered ribbons of cloud. Lambs gambolled, children emerged from their coated and booted cocoons, delicate pink flesh freed to the touch of renewal. Lily longed to race over the downs at their side. She yearned to roll in the first new grass, lay and listen to the pull-crunch of ewes eating to feed their frolicking offspring. She did not want that Spring to pass, tried not to long for Summer's bounty.

Spring had been fresh, delicate, invigorating by slow degrees, but now Summertime rolled around, casual, filled with sensual heat and the brilliance of light. Rainbows sparkled in every glance, sprinklers creating constantly shifting arcs of crystalline beauty. Flowers proliferated, splashes of colour so vivid they seemed unreal. Children turned from untried pink to toughened brown, like ripened nuts. Lily turned her gaze on the girls with their long legs, striding confident in impossibly short skirts, made of swinging ponytails and slicks of pearly lipstick; the boys with bare chests, long shorts and glasses perched in nests of cropped hair. The future walking her pavement, heading to the coffee house, the movies, the river where beer would be cooling in sparkling water, where flirting and laughing and joy would be, as it was every year.

Lily tried to ignore the dreams, the signs; tried not to fret over ephemeral thoughts which served only to spoil her Summer. There was no substance to her fears. No explanation for them. She could not understand why she had developed a sudden terror of the third season, a time she could no longer bring herself to name as it came closer, too close. The world was peaceful, no wars raged, no conflicts existed which could induce her absolute terror at the arrival of the coming months. She walked down her path, leaned on the gate, got a neighbour’s kid to bring her a cone when the ice cream van came round, tried to be happy at the end of the day, the last day of Summer.

Far away, in an office the world did not know existed, two men who had no names, no paper trail, no existence in the world, read the paper before them. They eyed each other, read again, nodded, pressed buttons and unleashed the chemicals on the test village.

Autumn arrived in Lily's world. It brought children falling in the streets like dead leaves. It brought coughing to adults, bright blood expelled, red like Fall foliage. It brought bonfires at Halloween, the dead lighting up the night like fireworks as their diseased flesh crackled and smoked. There would be no Autumn for Lily, her world vanished into hidden history.

Author's Note - The inspiration for this story came from a random thought - We say Springtime, Summertime, Wintertime, but I've never heard anyone say Falltime or Autumntime... So why wasn't there any Autumn time? This is what happened when thought about that!

Time - GBE prompt

2012-01-26T05:18:00.000-08:00

Mona finished dusting the dressing table, gave the triple mirrors a final polish, and gazed around the room in contentment. Everything in its place. The one thing she couldn't abide was an untidy house. Her son, Jason, thought he was independent now, capable of living without her. Perhaps, for the most part, but the notion of tidying his bachelor pad never seemed to occur to him. Mona had quietly had a key cut for the apartment, told him she would pay for maid service, her little treat as he worked so hard, such long hours, and proceeded to clean for him. A couple of times a week, even if she didn't like to admit it, it filled the long, empty hours now her kids were flown.

Packing dusters and endless variations on cleaning products into her cleaning bucket, Mona noticed a sock lurking under the chair in the corner of the bedroom. She hooked it out, sniffed it gingerly and was relieved to find it clean, smelling only of detergent. Wondering where its pair was, she crossed to the sliding doors of the wardrobe, opened the left side and popped it into the sock drawer. A knowing smile crossed her lips when she caught the faintest trace of perfume. So, Jason was keeping things from her. A lady friend, one who came often enough to leave her scent in the room.

Curious, knowing it was wrong and feeling a little grubby, Mona slid hangers along the rail. Sniffing sleeves with all the training of a mother, she sifted through shirts and jackets but the scent eluded her. Ready to give up, puzzled why the scent would linger in the wardrobe, she noticed a final hanger. It wasn't on the rail, but hung on a nail hammered into the back wall. With Jason's clothes in their normal order, it wouldn't have been visible. She reached back, brought it into the light and her bewilderment deepened.

It was the perfect little black dress. She held it against herself, looking into the dressing table mirrors. If she slipped into it, the fit would be perfect... because it had once been hers. Her cocktail dress, not worn since she'd had the children. Forgotten in the back of her wardrobe, for years. The scent wafted around her, light, floral, girly. Mona tried to fight the little voice in the back of her head, but she lay the dress on the bed and turned back to the wardrobe. She had to know.

She wasn't really shocked, nor really surprised, when a box in the bottom, hidden in the shadows beneath the hanging clothes, revealed a pair of her black stilettos, although the basque, the lacy undies, the stockings and suspenders were new. She sat, surrounded by the evidence and wondered why she hadn't realised before. Over the years, Jason had never brought a girl home. He went out plenty, but never locally, always to the big cities. Had he been hiding his activities from small-minded, small-town folk, protecting his family? Did her son become her daughter on those jaunts, where he would be unknown, unremarked?

Mona carefully packed everything back in place, prepared to shove the box back into the shadows. Her mind teemed, uncertainty looming large. Should she tell him she knew? Would he be angry at her snooping? He had every right to be. Why hadn't he felt he could come to her? She'd always been open with him, made it possible for him to talk to her about anything... hadn't she? Her fingers brushed against something, pushed even further into the darkness. She grasped, drew out a bunch of papers. At first she couldn't figure out why a handful of newspapers should be thrust into the wardrobe, but closer scrutiny revealed circles in red ink, looping about sections of the ads.

They were adverts for dances. From salsa to country, every red circle picked out a dance, open to all comers, new folk, beginners, welcome. Maybe that was how Jason picked up dates. Anonymous dances, far from home and prying eyes. Tears pricked her eyes, brought on by the most ridiculous of thoughts – Did he struggle not to lead, or was his femininity so strong he happily gave in and allowed himself to be led? How long had he been hiding who he was, from everyone... from her? Swiping away the tears, Mona pressed everything back in place, gathered her coat, her bag, and let herself out. She needed to go home, to think, decide if she should confront him.

Jason let himself in and grinned. Mum had been over. The place smelled of polish and the fresh flowers she'd set in the vase on the hall table. He'd give her a call later, say thanks, maybe take her to lunch on the weekend. He dumped his laptop case on the kitchen counter and headed for the bedroom. A shower was much needed. Sally was coming over later and he intended to ask her to marry him. It had been building for a few months now, the urge to be married, to be settled, and Sally was the one, he was sure of it.

Showered, shaved and dripping gently onto the bedroom carpet, Jason surveyed his wardrobe, debating what was suitable attire for a proposal. The grey suit? No, too formal, too business. The jeans and red t-shirt she liked? No, not formal enough. Inspiration struck and he shoved aside a few shirts, searching for the powder blue one which went beautifully with his black jeans. It would be a good compromise between smart and casual. What he found brought him up short.

The black dress was hung back-to-front. Someone had found it, moved it. He picked it up now, held it to him, inhaled the light scent, unable to suppress a smile of remembrance. It was pretty much the only other time he got it out; when he wanted to remember. He'd been so good for so long now. It had been two years since he'd last worn it, last had the urge to wear it, but the memories of those times were powerful still. Powerful enough to prevent him putting it on.

He knelt down, reached for the box. Opening it only confirmed his suspicions. Although carefully repacked, the items had been moved, probably removed and puzzled over. He groped into the shadows, pulled out the papers, sifted through them. These too. They were out of sequence. He looked at the circled dances, smiles again lifting his lips, warmth, a sexual heat flooding through his body, but his eyes were not on the dances. They fell on the reports further down each page. 'Man found strangled near Josie's dance studio.' 'Man found stabbed to death after line dance class.' 'Mystery surrounds death of man found outside disco bar.' The last clipping was two years old.

Mum. It had to be. Jason rose, gathering up the box and the dress. He slipped into the dress, admiring the way it clung to his slender frame, how good it felt to wear it once more. He brushed out his mane of dark curls, let them frame his face. He had received so many comments over the years about how androgynous he was, and he used it now. A little make-up, an adjustment in posture, in attitude and he became a woman. Men flocked to him, eager to possess him, his acquired air of delicate femininity. Even when those men found out what he was, even then, they wanted him. And he let them, knowing what would follow. The shame, the anger, the physical abuse. That was his trigger, the moment they laid hands on him in anger he could justify his actions. Strangle with the pretty scarf about his neck. Stab with the knife hidden in the clutch purse.

But the last one had been just before he met Sally. Sally who he'd kept to himself, enjoyed in private, fallen in love with far from the eyes of family and friends, of the small town. Now he was ready to reveal her, bring her home, but Mum was going to ruin it. He could hear her, trying to approach the subject discreetly, asking him if he was gay. Even if he denied it, he had no explanation for the dress, the heels and she would always suspect. How long before she let the secret slip? How long before she felt compelled to speak quietly to Sally? It couldn't happen.

Slipping into his heels, Jason reached for the phone and dialled. It was time to dance once more.

“Hey mum. Look, I know it's spur of the moment, but will you come dancing with me tonight?”

BFF 300 word challenge

2012-01-21T10:29:00.000-08:00

Penny walked into the kitchen, screamed and ran. She forced a chair under the door-handle, temporary relief at best. Alone in the house, all doors and windows barred against intruders, she'd been unprepared for the one already inside. Now she was was trapped; the only phone in the kitchen and the single set of keys upstairs on her bedside table... in case she needed them during a home invasion at night!

Choices. She could hear movement behind her, puzzled, thoughtful pacing behind the kitchen door. A shadow passed back and forth, strobing the light beneath. She unconsciously echoed it, thinking. If she went upstairs the intruder could be out and waiting for her when she came back down – the only exits were on the ground floor – but if she tried to break through one of the windows, could she break the thick wooden bars, so pretty, so impractical, before her unwanted visitor got out?

A tentative bulge in the jammed door decided her. He wanted out, and so did she. She fled up the stairs, slammed her bedroom door at the instant of rending wood and racing feet below, and shoved her bed against it. She snatched the keys from the table and paused. What the hell was she supposed to do now? She threw up the sash, cringing at the battering against the door, the snarling voice without, edged onto the window-sill and jumped.

The snow broke her fall. The forgotten garden seat broke her leg. She whimpered, began dragging herself to the gate, heard the immense thump behind her. Her hand fell from the gate latch, tangled in his thick grey fur as her husband's teeth sank into her throat. Mum had said there was something odd about Malcolm. If only she'd known what...

Censored - TWP prompt

2012-01-21T05:23:00.000-08:00

May stood on her front step, stretched hugely, gave her body a shimmy and pretended not to look at the reaction of the villagers. Amos, postman of thirty years standing, unfazed by any dog, did a double take, grinned sheepishly, and hurried off to the next street. Elaine, head of the W.I., giver of tedious dinner parties and staunch pillar of the church, seemed about to explode with disgust. May worried for a moment, Elaine's face an unhealthy shade of magenta, but the woman bristled, gave May her patented hard stare and stormed off toward the high street. A couple of lacy nets twitched across the way, whether husband or wife peeking she didn't care to know.

She strolled down the weed-speckled front path, leaned on the gate and waited for George. She could see him coming down the hill from the next village over, cap at its usual rakish angle, and even from this distance, she could see the occasional spark flying up from his steel caps. She smiled, oblivious to the bullock-like huffing of Mrs Anderton as the elderly but buxomly robust woman exited her bungalow three doors down, grabbed the milk from her front gate and glared at May. George had passed John Dale's house, which marked the end – or the beginning, depending on your viewpoint, - of the village, and she could hear him whistling. A risqué tune popular in the pubs locally, all cider and wenches.

“You'll get yourself in trouble singing that trash round here.” May grinned, George ambling down the street to her gate.

“You can talk.” he returned, mock rolling his eyes as he took in her apparel.

May wore a flimsy purple nightgown, which did next to nothing to conceal her considerable charms. Her feet clipped up the path as she led him into the house, stilettos in flaming red carrying her over the threshold. All boobs and bum, his mum had once said of May, but he knew there was more to her than she wanted the world to know. There was a third B, a brain and one day he would find out why she pretended not to have one. For now he followed her inside and closed the door.

There was no artifice with May. She grabbed his hand, all but dragged him up the stairs and shoved him at the bed. He laughed, happy to play along, his eyes twinkling when May threw open the window, flicked on the stereo and Barry White poured his sexual chocolate voice out to the neighbours. Their lovemaking was long, inventive, loud and ultimately exhausting. The afterglow was one of the very few times George felt he could get close to the real May. They lay now, naked, entwined, idly teasing skin with fingers and George drew a breath to speak. May laid a finger to his lips and shook her head, cascades of honey-blonde hair falling across his chest.

“Don't, George. My answer won't change.”

“Marry me, May.”

“No.”

“You'll be respectable.”

“I don't want that.”

“Why?”

“Don't ask. You know I won't answer any more than I will say yes.”

Not this time. George had been patient for thirty years. He'd first laid eyes on May when they were five. She'd been hanging upside down out of a tree about to fall head-first into the millpond. All he'd caught had been a flash of scarlet knickers, a stream of blonde curls and then a delighted scream as she'd let go. It had been love from that first instant. Through the school years he'd tried to reach her, but she wanted nothing of men, any men, not just him. She'd wanted to paint, to draw, to be an artist. Her world had revolved around colour, shape, light, shadow; her paintings showing a beautiful world filled with laughter and joy.

Aged eighteen, she'd been accepted to one of those posh art academies. She had real talent, they'd said, and she was going to escape village life, have the chance to paint wider landscapes, meet clever, influential people. He'd been torn, happy at her success, broken by the thought of her leaving, of those who might take her from him forever. She had been due to leave the next day, but there had been a final party to be had. The local youth from three villages around had come together in Dave Tibbet's barn on Longacre Farm. The cider had flowed, the music had blared, the dancing had been wild and May had been the centre of attention all night. George had finally given up. He'd decided to go home and sneak out early to catch her before she climbed on the coach, when no-one would be around.

May had never left. He'd gone to her home that morning, found her flying insanely high on the tire swing, her eyes distant. When he finally persuaded her to come down she'd refused to give any reason for her non-departure. She'd never once explained, not to him or anyone as far as he knew. Her paints had grown dry, her easel dusty, hidden in the attic under a heavy sheet. She worked from home, initially receiving proofing work in the post, these days by email. She never went into the village. She did not socialise. Her groceries were delivered by a firm from 'outside'. She went nowhere, but the village hated her.

There was a reason May never went out, did not shop locally. From that day, seventeen years in the past, May had undergone one major change. As far as George knew, she never charged, but there likely wasn't a man in the village, or the three surrounding, who hadn't been to see May over the years. The wives hated her for giving those men something they could not. The men hated her for tempting them into her arms. Gradually, with increasing venom, it had been made clear that May could not be a part of the village. The shops refused to serve her. People deliberately crossed the street to avoid her. Her words were ignored, her presence unacknowledged. If she needed help, she had to reach outside the village for it.

The worst moment George had seen for himself. May wasn't religious in the traditional sense. She loved God, and she loved the local church. Her joyful singing of hymns and beautiful arrangements of flowers had once been the pride of the village, but not on that day, ten years ago, and never since. George was pretty sure it had been Elaine and her ill-willed churchwomen who had finally got to the vicar. The old vicar, Reverend James, had been immovable. He had held to his word that ALL were welcome in his church and before God. He had been old, easy to remove with a word in the right ear, and Elaine knew all the right ears. The new vicar was young, but he came from the 'right' stock and George was sure Elaine had engineered May's banishment.

On that Sunday, May had headed up the church path, coming in last as usual, a vibrant bouquet in hand, and the heavy oak doors had simply been shut in her face. From his perch on a bench outside the King's Head, George had seen first bewilderment, then anger and finally resolve cross May's face. She'd settled herself under one of the open windows, cross-legged on one of the ancient tombs, and sung along to the hymns, joined the service, forever on the outside. She continued this practice to this day. But with that final action, May had been effectively censored. She was removed from village life and from village sensibilities, to the best of their abilities.

Lying with her now, his fingers tracing the voluptuous curves beneath, he shook his head.

“Why won't you leave, May?”

“I don't want to.”

“You could be happy somewhere else. We could... You could paint again.”

Whether it was the mention of her art he did not know but she sat bolt upright beside him. She grabbed his hand, hauled him off the bed and headed for the shallow flight of stairs to the attic.

“You're not going to let this go, I can see.” her voice held both sadness and something more, anger perhaps, “So come then, see for yourself why I will not leave them, let them forget about me.”

She left him in the doorway, threw open the heavy drapes, light flooding directly onto her easel, and dragged the cover from it.

“That” She pointed at the revealed canvas, “Is why I will not leave.”

Tears stood in he eyes, but her chin was up, her stance defiant as he stepped forward and took in the scene.

He hadn't seen a single piece by her since that night, so long ago, and he wished he wasn't seeing one now. There was no light, no joy, no love in the painting. It depicted a field he knew, a barn he recognised. Worse, it showed six figures, all people he knew. May stood centre stage. Young May, innocent May, naked May. About her ranged five men; no, not really men, barely more than boys. Her anger and pain had painted their faces. Lunatic faces, twisted by drink and lust, each still recognisable. Their intent was clear for they were as naked as she. Blood stained her thighs, blood stained their cocks, the brilliant red the only colour in a world of black and white.

He stooped, threw the cover over the canvas and turned. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, but May shook her head.

“No, George, no. I did my crying that night. Never since. Do you see why I couldn't leave?”

George shook his head, knuckling away the offending tears.

“No, May, I don't. Didn't you want to run, get as far away from them as possible?”

“Maybe, for a moment, I thought about it, but I couldn't let them get away with it. You saw those boys...” He nodded, sons of locals, of landowners, a judge, a teacher, a cop. “Who could I go to? This place is like a timewarp, always was. No-one wants to know. Did I go to the police, accuse our only bobby's son of rape? Would I get a fair trial from the judge whose son sodomised me? Would I be allowed to ruin their Oxford careers, besmirch the good name of so many families? Of course not. Daniel's dad – our beloved JP – told me, as I stood there wrapped in a blanket, blood on my thighs, that I'd be best to say nothing. 'Wouldn't want anyone's future messed up by some drunken hi-jinks, now would we.' were his words.

Something inside snapped, her tears falling and she finally did what he had always longed for and never seen her do. She reached for him, arms outstretched and he took her to him. All those years, all those men, her only means of revenge. Make the village dirty, be its blot on the landscape, and never once let them forget what they did to her, what they took from her.

The following morning the cottage stood empty, its windows and doors open to the world. George and May were long gone. May had done a little decorating before she left though. A canvas was nailed to the front gate, right beside the street name and number on her wall. A canvas in black and white and violent red. Later that day picture of the scene surfaced on the internet, was mailed to several newspapers. A picture which saw the end to censorship of one woman's life.

The Story Place - Story 1

2012-01-19T05:52:00.000-08:00

It fell, plummeting at speeds faster than any known to the inhabitants of the planet. A seething mass of fiery colour, molten, trailing vapour. It streaked a path across the inky black canopy above the slumbering world. A blazing trail of light, a warning in raging shades of red and violent orange, but the beings slept, heedless.

It fled through the atmosphere, a screaming whistle in its wake. As it lunged for the ground, the world began to sit up, take notice. It was a ravaged landscape. A world in the aftermath of senseless, decimating wars brought on by greed and intolerance. Nothing lived, merely existed. Swathes of land lay beneath barren, blackened debris. Craters burned, choking smoke filled the air and inhabitants of the dying world drank from water sources green with pollution, tasting chemicals and death.

Storms raged across the surface. Snow and ice froze vast stretches of once lush farmland. The seas boiled beneath the lashing of titanic tempests. Worse, any of the huddled beings would tell you, were the winds. Cyclones, hurricanes, tornadoes, whirlwinds of never ceasing movement, the winds scoured the land constantly. They ceased not their toil by day or night, seeming to work for the eradication of all, be it stone, wood, or flesh.

The flaming angel of death finished its journey, crashing into the world with a force even the barrages of bombs could not have rivalled. Flames, soot, smoke and searing colour screeched into being at the point of impact. For a blissful moment the world paused, everything suspended in anticipation; then it began. Fire rained up, was caught under its voracious wings by stream after stream of eager winds and spread with a speed which nothing could escape. Within a day, the planet burned.

There were none left to see the fire die, the planet slip into silent death. It floated in the void, spinning along its orbit, lifeless, pointless, a lump of rock, nothing more.

Who knew how long it waited. Far, far in the planet's future something fled from a distant star. It raced before the solar winds, buoyed, pushed toward its goal. It was slowing, losing impetus, and it could go no further. It fell through the atmosphere, slowing all the while. The landing was almost gentle. It fell into an enormous crater. A familiar landing site, if it could have known. And there it lay.

Its arrival caused shifts, tiny movements, the merest breath of a breeze and a flexing in the air. Progress was so slow as to be invisible, but things were moving once more, above and below the blackened, scorched soil. It took thousands of orbits for the first visible change to become apparent. Rain. Water, dripping from the blackened stump of a building in the centre of the crater, poised above the small, irregular rock, resting after its long voyage.

The drip continued as the squalls of rain became more frequent. A minute hole was worn in the rock. Cold returned to the world, sharp frosts which expanded and contracted the ice forming in and around the hole in the rock. One morning, hundreds of thousands of years after the rock fell into the crater, the planet's sun broke through the layer of smoggy clouds. It was a brief shining moment, but it was enough to warm the voyaging rock

It shivered, seemed to issue a breathless sigh and split apart. Inside, released from captivity, tiny green spores, invisible to the eye, fell out. A mischievous breath of wind, new and restless, scooped the spores from their rocky bed, carried them on its rushing, whirling wings and spread them across the world...

“...and thus began our world, little ones.”

Mojo could see all the children gazing about them, a few running thoughtful fingers through the lush green grass they sat upon, others staring at the shallow water tinkling over the stony riverbed. She always enjoyed the new faces, the new ears to fill with ancient wisdom, especially when it was this way, seed falling on fertile ground. She was getting too old for sitting on the rocks of the story place though. She wriggled, tried to ease the ache in her back, the numbness in her rear, and waited for the questions to come. When they were answered it would be time to pass on new stories, new wisdom to this generation.

Wordless Wednesday - #1

2012-01-18T13:32:00.000-08:00

The promise of things to come

Bellow - Random prompt word

2012-01-17T15:32:00.000-08:00

Jess fell over the cat, which promptly hissed and lacerated her shin, as she plummeted to the hall carpet. The doorbell chimed again, Jess struggling to her knees, almost certain she'd broken an ankle, and fumbled for the catch. The letterbox flapped open, a card beginning to poke through.

“Wait.”

Jess was relieved to hear the retreating footsteps falter and still. Footsteps returning, landing on the scrubbed, red-painted step. The bellow which followed added a ruptured eardrum to her list of woes, but help was needed.

“Is someone there?”

“Yes, me.”

“Who's me?”

The voice was overwhelming, even through the narrow slit of the letterbox. Tempted as she was to tell the man to look at the letters in his hand, Jess hissed her name over lips clenched tight against the pain.

“Jess Parker. Any chance of some help?”

“What's up then, lass?”

Later, when she had time to think, far away from Derek, Jess wondered why she'd felt a sudden urge to spill her guts to this disembodied, booming voice.

“I'm waiting for a cheque... to pay my rent. It's late. I saw you coming, ran down the stairs, missed the last one, fell over the cat and I think I've broken my ankle. It hurts...”

The last came out in a tearful little whimper. She was most unimpressed but it seemed to work like magic on the voice.

“Don't you fret, girly”, Girly? Really?, “Got a spare key out here?”

“No. I never thought it was safe. Woman on her own...”

Jess clammed up, aware she had just told a complete stranger she was alone and injured. What the hell had happened to her brains? It didn't seem to affect her would-be rescuer.

“Back door open? Window?”

“Bathroom window, upstairs. There's a ladder in the shed...”

Too late, she thought as heavy steps receded around the side of the cottage. Just my luck he's an axe murderer!

The strangest thing was the fact that his voice grew no dimmer. All the way round to the rear of the house he called to her, reassuring her, confirming he'd found the ladder and was proceeding – his exact words; like some TV cop – to work his way in. For a while the booming voice was silenced. When he started up again the volume was not impaired but the rescue was.

“Er... Miss Parker?”

“Yes.”

The surreal actions were getting to her, giggling becoming harder to suppress.

“Your bathroom window is extremely...narrow. More of an arrow slit really, if you think about it...”

She hadn't. It took her a moment of listening to some thumps, a strange ripping noise and a lot of huffing before she realised what had happened. She yelled up again.

“Your stuck, aren't you?”

“It would appear so.” came the reverberating reply.

“Bugger!”

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Buy a pretty cottage in the back of beyond. One with no land-line, no internet, not even a regular electricity supply. It had appealed to her need for solitude, peace and space to write and think. Her only contact with the outside world came via a weekly delivery from the local store (which had arrived the day previous) and a mobile which she hadn't charged in as long as she could remember. Not to mention said phone resided in her bedroom cabinet – on the upper floor.

“How stuck are you?”

“Not to be indelicate, Miss, but if I move I may never have children.”

“Ah...”

“Indeed.”

They lay and balanced in silence for a few moments. Eventually Jess made her move.

“The pain in my ankle can't get any worse. I'm going to try and drag myself upstairs to the mobile in my bedroom.”

“Good thought.” came the booming reply, followed by a small pause, “I suppose I ought to introduce myself, as I am semi-visiting. Derek, Derek Arkwright, substitute postman.”

“Not the day you expected huh?”

“You could say that.”

A little softer would be good, Jess thought as she hauled herself to the stairs, pain flaring and dying constantly. Maybe he didn't realise how ..big his voice was. On the third stair she nearly lost it. The cat had decided it was time to return. It stalked up the stairs, walked over her ankle a few times, rubbed up with what seemed like a chin full of razors and then tried to curl up on her leg. Jess' instant, and unfortunate, reaction was to rear backward, away from the pain.. and she head-butted the stair-post with considerable force.

“Miss Parker? Jessica? Jess?”

It was probably the sheer volume which brought her round. She sat up groggily, glared at the cat – who ignored her and headed off for lunch next door – and called back, wincing.

“I think I knocked myself out, Derek. I'm ok, I think. I'm coming up.”

It took five minutes of dragging, wincing and an increasingly mammoth headache, but she made it. Catching her breath on the landing, she risked a glance into the bathroom. The door was half open and she couldn't see much. Just a shaggy mop of brown curls.

“Derek?”

He looked up, tried to blow hair out of his eyes. There was no rhyme or reason, but they were laughing, instantly. The situation probably couldn't have been more ridiculous, so perhaps they were excused, but it didn't help Jess' headache, and Derek winced hugely as he tried to catch a breath.

Of course, the phone wasn't charged. Half hour of hauling herself around the bedroom on her bum, constantly being encouraged – at 'turned up to 11' – by Derek, produced the charger. An hour later they couldn't get a signal, but they had discovered a shared love of Spiderman comics and Sugar Puffs without milk. Jess sat with her bottom half supported on a pile of pillows and her top half hanging out the window, arm waving frantically, hoping to catch a bar and ready to press 999. A glance to her right caused more hysterics as she realised she was talking to Derek's feet, sans shoes – which had fallen off in his heroic efforts to squeeze through the window – and he was wearing Winnie the Pooh socks. She preferred Tigger, she explained, but they both liked Eeyore, so that was good.

“Bar!”

“Press!”

“Done.”

Half an hour later they were sitting in her kitchen, coffee in hand – they both liked it without sugar but lots of cream – grinning and trying to ignore the knowing looks of the retreating police and firemen.

Two years later they were married. Jess invested in earplugs, and Derek did his best not to shout. It turned out he was a little slip of a thing, all sinew and barely scraping her shoulder on a big hair day (but bigger than an arrow slit!). He'd learned to shout to make his presence felt. Some days, Jess thought his lungs must have filled the entirety of his narrow chest.

Three years later they were blessed with twins, one of each. The little boy, DJ, was robust, bigger by a pound. The little girl, Deedee, was tiny... but she'd inherited her father's lungs!

Pet Peeves - GBE2 prompt

2012-01-16T13:16:00.000-08:00

Alison strode into the teachers lounge. Her position as part-time librarian didn't actually give her the right, but no-one had yet found enough courage to argue with her. The collective staff winced when the substitute teacher for 6B chirped;

“Morning, Ali.”

She stopped, stared, spoke, frost dripping from her words.

“My name is Alison. Over-familiar shortening of names is one of my pet peeves.”

The sub subsided, the entire room wishing they could help him disappear into the faded and patched upholstery. More than one had been on the end of Alison's pet peeve list. They understood. Only a couple noticed the barely-there pop from somewhere behind her right shoulder.

Later, bulling her way to the front of the dinner queue, no excuses made, Alison stared at the gravy on her mash. It almost seemed that it was slinking around her plate, trying to hide under the peas in its shame.

“What is this?” she demanded of the trainee behind the counter.

“Gravy?” offered the trainee, unaware of her imminent need to to anywhere but there.

“This, young lady, is made from...” Alison shuddered, her nose literally turning up at the brown goo on her plate, “Granules!”

“Erm...”

The trainee looked around desperately for help, but everyone seemed suddenly occupied, an unnatural silence having fallen over the kitchen and dining hall.

“As you seem ill-equipped to deal with this problem, I expect a replacement meal, with real gravy, or a ticket for a free meal should this 'caff'” a word deposited in the air with venom, “ever serve anything I can actually eat!”

A senior cook finally took pity on the girl, ushered her out back and wrote an IOU for Alison. This she waved under the nose of the woman behind her, who promptly stepped back and nearly knocked the entire line over like so many dominoes.

“Everyone knows granule gravy is one of my pet peeves!”

With that the SS Alison sailed forth to do battle with recalcitrant teens in the library. The faint pop in the air close to her departing frame was assumed to be a door hinge by the people sitting nearby.

On the bus home Alison stared fixedly at a young man sitting beneath her right armpit as she clung to a hanging strap. With no seats left, Alison had been forced to stand. In her mind, the spotty yob should have instantly been on his feet and offering a lady a seat. His refusal to do so both baffled and angered her. Staring didn't seem to be doing the trick. Probably due to the ridiculous plug things in his ears. They were issuing a muffled beat and that strange hissing static which is common to every set of headphones in the world. Alison poked him with her perfectly rolled umbrella.

“You there, turn that racket down. You're annoying the other passengers. That noise is a pet peeve of mine”

Everyone on the bus found somewhere far more interesting to look, not one so much as nodding in agreement. The lad looked up, shrugged and fiddled with something in his jacket. The sounds receded, but his instant retreat into closed eyes and the fact that his rear was still firmly planted on 'her' seat drove Alison forward. She prodded him again.

“Did your parents forget to teach you manners? Stand up and offer me your seat!”

The young man blushed vermilion, scurried out of the seat and weaved through the crowd to the front of the bus, the driver giving him a compassionate look and opening the doors to let him off. Alison sat with a satisfied thump and addressed the bus in general.

“Rude youths. One of my pet peeves you know.”

The two little pops were presumed to be the air brakes.

Alison approached her gate, unaware of neighbours running for cover, and frowned. Her evening newspaper lay in the grass.

“Honestly” she muttered to the empty street, “Why can't the boy open the gate and put it through the letterbox? Laziness, sheer laziness. A pet peeve of mine.”

She was sure she heard a faint pop when she turned the key in the lock.

Pet peeves seemed to plague her for the rest of the night. The children next door screamed and shrieked for hours.

“Why don't their parents stop them gallivanting about under that sprinkler and make them behave?” she asked, bewildered by the laughter and screaming from the adjacent lawn, “Bad parenting and unruly behaviour. Pet peeves of mine.”

Pop. Pop.

She shared a bathroom with her lodger. The elderly lady paid her rent regularly and kept to herself, but she irritated Alison far too often. Entering the bathroom , she noted the towel was hung back on the rail... upside down. A pet peeve. Pop. The toothpaste tube had been squeezed in the middle. Another pet peeve. The empty toilet roll sat on the holder, a newly started one balanced on top of it. Pet peeve in abundance. Pop. Alison flopped into bed, exhausted by the refusal of the world to conform to her standards and slipped into sleep.

She came awake with a start, clutched her chest, tried to scream in pain and couldn't. A few seconds later she felt decidedly fuzzy, but the pain was gone. A young man appeared at her bedside. How dare he?! She was about to make her presence felt when he held out his hand.

“Come with me, Alison.”

“Excuse me? I will do no such thing.”

“I'm sorry, Alison, but you really must.”

Alison began to protest and then noticed something very strange. Despite the fact that she was standing on the floor, her feet were hovering about a foot above the pale green carpet. She noticed crumbs on the rug. The cleaner skimping again. That woman really got her pet peeves going!

The pop was much louder, Alison startling, leaping away from the bed and noticing her body was still in it, mouth hanging open in an unlovely gape, hand clutched about one wizened breast. Two questions came to mind immediately. She looked at the young man, pale, immaculately clean, unlined, freshly-minted even.

“I'm dead, aren't I?”

He nodded.

“What was that noise?”

“Allow me to show you.”

He once more offered his hand. Alison took it gingerly. People's lack of hygiene was a pet peeve of hers.

The pop was truly colossal. Alison actually thought a rocket had been fired by her ear. She clung to the young man as they approached a pale door which appeared to be formed from light. As they stepped across the threshold the young man smiled gently.

“Welcome to your Limbo room, Alison. A representative of the Beyond will be with you in due time.”

Somewhere behind her Alison heard a cough. The sort of cough that didn't have a hand over it. A pet peeve... Pop....

The young man was stepping back through the door. She rushed after him but the door refused her attempts to get through.

“How long will this person be?” she called after him.

“As long as it takes.” came the fading voice.

She hated people who didn't give you a proper answer. It was a pet...

She clamped a hand over her mouth. No pop. That was good. Things suddenly felt a lot clearer. Advancing into the brilliance of the room, she began to understand that her life may not have been the upstanding success she had believed it to be. Someone sneezed to her left, a man stepping out of the light with a dripping nose and no hanky. A young man bopped into her field of vision, his Ipod turned up, static hissing wildly. A young child came toward her, filthy hand extended, smiling, calling, 'Ali, Ali, Ali. Play mud castles with me, Ali'.

A voice sounded softly from somewhere above, in the invisible. Ancient, wise, gentle but firm. Severe and yet filled with barely contained joy.

“People who waste their lives are a pet peeve of mine, Ali”

Ali began to scream.

History - GBE2 prompt

2012-01-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

“Hello. You there, with the emo fringe and appalling dye-job. Wait up. Oh come on! Surely you can hear me. Do you not have a sensitive bone in your body?”

My fifteen year-old nephew, Zack. Of course he is insensitive. He's a teen. Fine, just get in the damn car and go. I'll walk shall I? I've heard of being late for your own funeral but this is bloody ridiculous!

Ooh, no problem, Auntie Sadie will do. That zimmer slows her down. I'll just have to put up with the smell of pee and the inanities. Dementia is her only friend these days. She's outlived the rest! Mind you, I have my suspicions about how far gone the old cow actually is. I think she just enjoys being rude and getting away with it because no-one dares say anything.

There. Mission accomplished. Weird riding in the third car back when the rest of me is up the front there. Nice display of flowers. Anne's wreath's a bit cheesy. All that 'Sister' spelled out in white carnations. She knows I hate those things. They smell weird. Not as bad as Aunt Sadie though. Good grief, when did you last wash, ya daft old bat?

Why can I still smell things? Aren't I supposed to waft about leaving peculiar whiffs and the odd draught? Goose walking over your grave and all that. I note we're heading for the Crem. Typical Anne. Too tight to buy a plot, a nice coffin and a headstone. Bit of plyboard and a burst of flame and she's in the clear. She'd better not dump my bloody ashes on those stupid sodding roses of hers!

Hmm lots of cars in the lot. Good turnout. Few from work. Loads of relatives. Bet most of 'em only came for the booze-up after. If they think Anne is gonna lay on a free bar they don't know my sister. Surprised she didn't dump me in a cardboard box from Tesco and bury me in the back garden. Ooh, that's Graham from accounts. Always thought he had a thing for me. Let's see if I can get a bit closer. This incorporeal stuff takes some getting the hang of.

That's better. Well, sort of. Can't believe Denise from Sales is hitting on Graham. It's my funeral, for gods sake. I'm supposed to be the centre of attention! What the... I didn't think people would actually bad-mouth me before I'm a pile of dust! Dammit, I can't even do anything to her. How dare she call me needy and a bit plain. Bitch! What the hell happened to poltergeist activity and all that? Can't even whisper curses in her ear! Stupid Graham agreeing 'cos he wants a quickie behind the chapel. He's in for a surprise. Bet he doesn't know Denise used to Denis, and she's not quite 'done' yet.

Ah, this is better. Always loved Auntie Ivy and Uncle Trev. Fond memories of her choc chip cookies and his teaching me chess. They never made a fuss when I stayed. Let me run riot as I remember. Good folks. Nice spot to watch the service. Wonder who's doing the eulogy? Dan? Seriously? We've been divorced five years and still aren't done hating, Who the hell thought this was a good move? I'm betting Anne. She was always jealous. Not my fault he was her boyfriend first. She couldn't keep him, I could. Well, for awhile anyway. Oh bugger... Not sure I want to hear this... Wonder how I disapparate... or whatever it's called?

Yeah, let me tell you, no-one was as surprised as me at my 'sudden and tragic departure'! Who knew walking over a grating could be fatal? It takes a particularly vindictive, not to mention imaginative, god to have someone die via strolling down a city street and getting blown through a plate glass window by an errant sewer grating. You haven't lived... died... until you've stood over yourself in a slowly spreading puddle of your own blood, surrounded by panicking idiots and a sewer worker declaiming that it wasn't his fault the spark lit the gases. I tried to kick him, but it didn't go well. Don't think I didn't see the lighter in his back pocket, or the fag tucked behind his ear!

Anyway, Dan's doing ok so far. Ellen, a history in three (and a bit) decades. Suitable stories about growing up; about my falling out of trees, and off bikes, and into rivers, and over hedges, and... yeah ok, you can stop now, I was clumsy. We get that. Moving right along. Oh gawd, no. Don't tell them that one. You insensitive jerk! It wasn't my fault the field had an undeclared bull. It wasn't my fault the stupid thing looked up as I was crossing said field and took a fancy to me. Or maybe it was the straw hat I was wearing. Yes, fine, laugh it up. The hedge was high, I was short and my underwear was flimsy. I'm glad you all find the tale of the bull who ate the panties I left on the hedge as I vaulted it so amusing.

Oh good, this gets better. First job, hairdressing, and yes I might have left the perm on a bit long. The woman looked good bald, I swear! Yes, I did meet Prince Charles at the college fete and spend the entire time staring fixedly at his ears, unable to speak or move when he got to me in the line. Temporary paralysis brought on by the excitement, honestly. Yes, I did paint Happy Halloween backward on my face at the works do. I did it in a mirror, gimme a break here! Ok, I've had enough of this. I'm heading out to the car to wait for them. Maybe the reception will be better. Not sure I want to see 'Me-Barbeque' anyway.

Who's that over by the remembrance garden? Jerry? Really! Now you I did not expect. I'm glad I can smell you. Always loved your aftershave. It was like you, cool and classy. Have you been crying? Bloody hell, you have! I wish I could tell you how much I wanted us to stay together. I loved you so much it was a physical pain. The good kind of hurt. What you up to there? Aw, poppies. You remembered my favourites. I'm impressed. What's on the card? 'Ellen, I never stopped loving you, Jerry'.

Well why didn't you tell me, you moron!? I would have slaughtered anyone who came between us if I'd known, but no. You walked away. Gave me my freedom to follow my career. Didn't you know I'd have peeled potatoes, dusted picture rails and changed endless nappies on our multiple kids if you'd once told me you loved me? You didn't, did you? You had no idea what I would have given up for you. Jesus wept, I was an idiot... We both were. Too late now.

Wish I could hold you one last time. Here, let me tuck that bit of hair behind your ear. It was always falling in your eyes. Oh wow... I did it. I touched you. No, not now. Don't let me fade now! I can hear you sweetheart. Say it before I'm gone. Please.... Yes, oh yes. I always loved you too, Jerry, always will...

Jerry touched the spot close to his ear where he'd felt her fingers brush his hair. He smiled, whispered into the faint breeze which brushed across his lips;

“I'll come find you one day, El, so don't run too far.”

Love 'n' Kisses - For the BFF prompt

2012-01-15T06:27:00.000-08:00

Kelly walked through the door, chucked her keys at the hall table, and dragged her way to the lounge.

“Dinner'll be half hour, love.”

Mum's head popped through the serving hatch, a dab of flour on her cheek, hair in rollers. Bingo night. Kelly nodded, lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. One more day at work. One more day until two blissful weeks of solitude in the wilds of Somerset. She managed a grin. The village was hardly wild, but the surrounding hills and woods were wild enough for a city girl.

Mum reappeared bearing an all too familiar expression and a small purple envelope. She proffered it, hesitant but staunchly determined to do the deed.

“Sorry, Kel. Found it on the mat when I got in. Nearly threw it out, but it's mail, been through the post and stuff. Pretty sure it's illegal to destroy someone's mail. Don't want to cause any ...”

“It's ok, Mum. Give it here.”

The envelope was handed over, Kelly trying to ignore the surreptitious hand wipe Mum made against her apron. There was no doubt, something in the irregular arrival of the purple envelopes felt...grubby. Kelly always experienced an almost OCD need to wash her hands for a day after the arrival of what she termed in her head 'The Purple Pest'. Not that there was ever anything nasty in the envelopes. It was just a lingering discomfort in the back of her mind which itched for several days after a delivery.

She ripped open the sturdy envelope, trying not to wonder if the sender had licked the flap into place, and extracted the single sheet of neatly typed paper within.

'Dearest Kelly-Anne'

That always struck her, made her pause and consider. No-one ever called her by her full name. Not even Mum when using the 'I'm not angry, just disappointed' tack. But Purple Pest always used her full name. She knew it was useless to wonder why, but couldn't help doing so. Maybe Pest was just a formal kinda guy. For guy he was. Of that she was certain. Not that she had any evidence. The letters just felt... male. She read on.

'I hope you have a wonderful time in Overton. It is such a pretty village. The sort you see on chocolate boxes and jigsaws, no?'

That brought her up short again. There was never any clue to the person behind the letters, not in 15 years, but had he made a tiny slip? That 'no' at the end of the sentence. Did it indicate he was not a native? She had a few French and Spanish friends and they made a habit of ending sentences with that questioning 'no' which she always wanted to substitute with a 'yes'. Was her Pest foreign? Her treacherous mind cast up images of exotic, dashing princes from far distant lands and she jumped all over the thoughts before reading on. She couldn't afford to romanticise the Pest. Fair enough, he hadn't made any attempt at physical contact in 15 years, but who knew what his intentions were. Being on her guard had become a way of life for Kelly, and she wasn't about to change that now.

'I do not wish to keep you, I know you are tired after work, but please indulge me a moment more. Upon arrival in Overton, please ask the concierge at your rooming-house for the key I have left for you. It is in a familiar envelope...

Love 'n' kisses

And that was it. No explanations, no more information. The pattern was familiar, but something felt odd this time. The language was as formal, slightly 'off', as it ever was. Nothing had overtly changed, and yet something felt wrong. Deep in thought, Kelly startled a little when Mum shifted beside her.

“Well?”

“Nothing, Mum. Just wishing me a happy vacation and letting me know there will be a key waiting for me at the hotel”

'Rooming-house' He'd used that term and it jangled against her mind. Who used such a word? Didn't everyone say hotel or B&B? It simply didn't fit with the pattern she'd come to know.

“More keys? What now?”

“I'll know when I get there, Mum. No point in worrying. Anyway, he's done nothing in all this time, Why change now?”

She soothed her Mum, chatted idly for a while, but when she clambered under her duvet, tried to sleep, her mind replayed the letter. Something was up with Pest and that made her nervous.

She spent the following day rereading the message between work commitments. The fact that she couldn't push it from her mind bothered her more than anything else. The first Purple Pest envelope had arrived when she was 15. It had contained a birthday card and a key. Amongst her gifts had been a locket which nobody seemed to have sent. The key in the envelope fitted the locket. Inside had been a tiny pressed flower, a barely opened poppy, her favourite. From that day forward envelopes had arrived. There was no schedule, although her birthday was never missed, but they always contained a key. Within the space of the following week, Kelly would find the lock for the key and some delicate token would be hiding within. There had been music boxes, jewellery cases, ornaments, even a miniature grandfather clock on one memorable occasion, but every one had a lock and key.

The only other constant was the sign-off. From the beginning it had been 'Love 'n' kisses'. It felt so intimate, but playful. It also fitted with Pest's formality. The neatly stroked apostrophe before and after the N were deeply correct. She'd built a mental picture of Pest. Not what he looked like. That hadn't seemed wise somehow. If she set a picture in her head, expected a blond and he turned out to be dark, she was setting herself up for a fall. Expect anything. She did have an image of his personality though. Straight-laced, a good, honest citizen, probably with a tendency to efficiency and a need for order and few deviations from schedule. He probably still used a typewriter because the world of computers and the internet seemed beyond his ability to control and were to be avoided.

She remembered her one and only conversation with the police about Pest. A couple of years previously, Mum had persuaded her to take the envelopes to the local cops, at least get their opinion. She'd been shunted around a bit and then plopped in front of a clearly inexperienced female officer who was out of her depth. Kelly had assumed the guys felt she'd do better with a woman. Kelly had made her position abundantly clear and finally got bumped up to a plain clothes guy who listened, read and then shrugged.

“Nothing we can do, Miss.”

“Your kidding? With all this evidence?”

He'd laid a hand on the pile of letters, ran the other through the pile of keys with a discordant jangle, and sighed.

“You know, I'm not being awkward here. I would love to help you. I've seen too many of these go wrong, but the law says we can't do anything until and unless he does something to you.”

Kelly had been shocked, but the man had a point.

“All you have are letters from an unknown admirer who sends you cute little gifts. He never makes actual contact. You don't even know it's a he. There's nothing here that will stand up in a court. All I can do is give you some advice. Expect anything. Don't think you know him. Watch out for anything odd. If something changes, no matter how small, it's probably an indication that he's moving to a new level. Be on your guard, always.”

He'd wished her luck and she'd left, but she'd taken his words to heart and they returned now, ringing through her head when she got home, finished her packing.

“Be on your guard.” she murmured.

The first days in Overton were beautiful. Serene blue skies and fragrant, balmy breezes accompanied her on her walks. As did the key. It had been waiting as Pest had promised, secure in its little purple envelope. As yet she hadn't found the lock, but that didn't worry her. What did was the purple. The colour of the envelope had changed. Probably, if she hadn't seen so many, kept them all, she wouldn't have noticed, but it was paler. Maybe Pest had run out of his usual style. Maybe the factory had stopped producing them, but the cop's words came back. 'If something changes, no matter how small...'

On her first weekend she decided to borrow a tent and camp out overnight in the woods, There was a pretty glade, complete with tinkling stream and close to a badger sett, which she'd come across whilst wandering, and it felt like the perfect spot. Always on her guard, she carefully explained where it was to the hotel manager and asked that someone check in on her if she didn't return the following evening. The guy gave her a 'Bless the tourist' look, joked about watching out for bear and wolf (oh my), and promised to do as she asked. Having done all she could, Kelly set off.

The hike was long, but not difficult. Butterflies clouded everywhere she looked, although far too many of them had a purple hue. She arrived at the glade as evening approached and was somewhat daunted by the profusion of flowers which had blossomed since her last visit. The fact that they were all the same shade as the latest Pest envelope did not aid matters. She came close to turning around, but her father had been a stubborn old goat, according to Mum anyway, and she had that streak a mile wide. She spent the next hour wrestling with the unfamiliar camping equipment, resorted to digging out the mini stove from her pack when the firewood she'd gathered failed to light and finally settled at the flap of her tent as the sun disappeared and the stars took their place.

For a long time all was silence. Kelly drifted in and out of a light doze, content to let her mind wander where it would until she was ready for deeper sleep. She came sharply alert at a heavy thud and some furtive rustling to her left. Fighting her way out of the sleeping bag, trying to be quiet and making a hash of it, she eventually stuck her head around the corner of the tent. A black and white muzzle stared back at her, wearing an expression she would have sworn was annoyance. The badger surveyed her for a full thirty seconds, snorted derisively and trundled off to nose around the base of the large oak on the opposite side of the glade. Having decided Kelly was of no interest it simply ignored her.

Kelly sat, entranced. The creature behaved as if she wasn't there, rootling around, sniffing and grunting, eating something she was pretty glad she couldn't see, and generally being perfect. She moved very slowly, twisting slightly, reaching around for her camera, hoping against hope she could get a shot without the flash scaring it away. She needn't have worried. Her scream did the trick.

She shot backwards on her bum, scrabbling feet sending up flurries of moss and leaves, her mouth issuing noises her brain had nothing to do with, It was too busy screaming 'Purple Pest!' The actuality of being face-to-face with the Pest and the stupidity of the name forced her head into a corner from which it had to escape. That required calm and sense asserted itself. Pest couldn't actually chase her. She clamped her mouth shut, clambered to her feet and stared at the man in the wheelchair.

“How the hell did you get up here?”

Not perhaps the most obvious question but her brain was running to catch up with her eyes and not doing a great job of it.

“I had help. They're beautiful aren't they? I knew you'd find them, find this place, eventually.”
“The lock is here?”

“It is.”

Kelly flinched when the man lifted his hand slightly from the arm of the chair, but relaxed instantly. His wrist was handcuffed to the chair.

“My key fits them?”

“Yes. You can choose to let me out when you wish. If you wish.”

“Why would I do that? You could be faking all this.”

“I could, but I'm not. However, I am aware I could shoot you from the chair, so I cuffed my hands. I am no danger to you, Kelly-Anne.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because it is the name I gave you. It reminds me of your mother.”

“What?”

At a complete loss, Kelly didn't think, didn't hesitate when the man held up a purple folder. She took it, flipped it open, began reading before he had spoken, barely hearing his words.

“Read it. It explains everything. I have proved that I can wait.”

He sat back and did just that as Kelly devoured the few thin sheets within. Three in all. The first was a birth announcement from a local paper. To Michael and Anne DeSoto, a daughter. The child shared Kelly's birthday. The accompanying picture showed Pest... No, not Pest but Michael. Also a delicate baby girl flounced in layers of pink froth, and a woman who could have been Kelly's twin. The second clipping was from the same paper, but six months later. The headline blared 'Local couple feared dead!' The report stated that a car had been found on the edge of town, badly burnt. It was traced to Michael and Anne DeSoto. Anne's body had been recovered from the car, but the whereabouts of Michael were a mystery. No explanation was given for the state of the car.

Kelly flicked her eyes over the last piece, a maudlin thing about lovely local couple who adopted the sad little orphan left behind after the tragic car accident, then looked to the wheelchair.

“Why didn't you keep me?”

“Many reasons, but mostly this.” He indicated the chair, “I couldn't look after you. Couldn't be the father I wanted for you. I was torn apart by the loss of Anne, your mother. I couldn't keep you. It was the final straw, I think. Giving you away forced me to leave. I didn't want anyone to know, see what had happened to me. Better they think I died, or even ran away. I couldn't stay, watch you grow, knowing you would never know I was your father.”

“Why weren't you in the car? You don't look burned.”

“I was. We hit a deer, a big one. Anne swerved, we rolled and ended up off the road. I was thrown half out the car when the door opened. We were both unconscious for a while. The car was on fire when I came to, my lower half on fire. I dragged myself out, managed to roll in the dirt, put out the flames, but I couldn't save Anne. I was too weak, too badly burned. I'll never forget her screams. I...”

Maybe, somewhere deep inside, there is a part of us all which is programmed to forgive those of our blood, to reach out to them when they are in crisis. Kelly found herself moving, without thought. She sank beside the wheelchair, fingers fumbling with the locks on the cuffs. When Michael's hands were freed she snaked her arms about him, cradled his head against her shoulder.

“It's ok, Dad, it's ok.”

Maybe it would be, or perhaps she would never be able to forgive her father for shutting her off, but she had one more question before that future could begin.

“Why purple?”

“Because it was your mother's favourite colour, and the colour of the blanket I wrapped you in when I gave you to the nun from the orphange.”

The Work - GBE2 prompt

2012-01-06T01:05:00.000-08:00

Doris hefted the bowl of warm, soapy water, and slid it into a more comfortable position. Jobs still had to be done, despite arthritis. Some jobs you had to do yourself. There was nothing above or below which would have taken this task out of her gnarled, capable hands.

She gently raised Alf's left hand, felt her heart wince as she slid off his wedding ring, albeit momentarily, and wiped delicately over his cool skin. She paid particular attention to his nails, a smile replacing her melancholy for a blissful second. His hands spoke volumes to one who knew him as well as she did. Fingers and palms bore traces of long-healed wounds, burns and cuts which were and inevitable part of his daily routine. Usually, the sparkling white nails were black with grease, oil and often sparkled with slivers of metal shavings. 'Avoid mechanics with clean hands, Doe', advice he'd repeated to her time beyond counting. Advice which once more twitched her smile, stretching the lines of her lips, making her mouth young again.

She replaced the ring, the unsettling affect of its removal slipping away. Moving on, finishing the task before her, she raised a bundle of suds, whisked with his timeworn brush and applied it to the faint darkening along his jaw. Alf, husband, lover, friend of 60 years, wouldn't have been seen in public without running that cut-throat over his face. She set it against his skin, flinching despite her determination. She'd never been able to watch him use it, his teasing a common thread running through the long years of their union. 'Daft Doe' he'd grin, mock-threatening her with the wicked steel. Even in their seventies, with great-grandchildren in their wake, his teasing had still returned her to the giggling, blushing sixteen-year-old who'd first stepped onto a dance-floor with the 'older and wiser' Alf.

She let her mind distract her from the sibilant strokes of the razor, flying beneath her fingers, let herself drift back to that dance. Alf had been so tall, so dark, so alien amongst the red-headed Irish lads she'd grown up with. His dark good looks had earned him the nickname 'The Mexican'; local lads thinking it the height of wit. Alf had taken it in good part, his gentle temperament also separating him from the fiery explosions so common amongst the lads. All the girls thought he was an absolute bobby-dazzler and every one of them had flashed an ankle in his direction as soon as eagle-eyed parents weren't watching... to no avail. He seemed impervious. Always polite, always kind, funny, but never moved to woo. Until that harvest night...

Doris carefully dried the razor, flicked it back together. She laid it in its box, wrapped the navy velvet around it and closed the lid. A tear slipped over her cheek, skin stretched thin as finest porcelain, veined with threads of experience. Brushing the spot of damp heat impatiently away, determined to finish the job without breaking down, Doris, Alf's little Doe, fought her way back to that night, letting it buoy her as she washed Alf's hair, still threaded with lines of deepest black in the silver-grey.

The girls had been bunched up in one corner, a desert of space between them and the boys, most propping up the bar, or smoking, trying to be cool. The band, consisting of church members more used to carols than 'Oh Carol', droned on, churning out some stiff, formal number not one of the teens had been able to put a name to. It had been Doris' first dance, her sixteenth birthday conferring a little 'adulthood' on her petite frame. Her big sister, Alison, had helped her get dressed, attempted to tame her auburn curls and applied a wicked slick of baby pink lippy. Doris had stood, hopping slightly from foot to foot, wondering if anyone would ask her to dance. She'd prayed silently; 'Don't let me go home untried, not on my first dance.', hoping some passing god would hear and obey, clutching her cola tight enough that the glass almost squirted through her fingers.

A light twinkled in the faded green eyes which followed the movements of her tired hands, which watched as she stripped her man's emaciated frame and washed his body with a tenderness verging on adoration. She supposed she had adored him, all but worshipped the ground he'd walked on. She would never have said it aloud, least of all in his presence, but she'd needed no other gods. As long as Alf had been in her world, it had been more than she could have dreamed on that night 60 years past. She let herself head back there as she towelled, powdered and began to dress Alf in his Sunday suit.

There had been a flurry of twittering amongst the girls, all eyes turning to watch as Alf had approached the band. His arrival at the stage had led to several moments of discordant notes, and half attempts at some tune, then they'd suddenly found their way and a fast song had begun to get toes tapping and smiles perking. Alf had strode across the deserted floor. Every girl in the bunch suddenly straightened up, fluffing hair, licking lips, and Doris had not been immune, despite knowing he wouldn't come her way. He had already been angling toward Grace, best looking girl in the village, by everyone's standards and agreement. At the last instant, he'd veered, suddenly appearing before Doris, his hand extended, his eyes expectant, his lips curved in the faintest tease of a smile.

Ever after he told any who listened that that was the moment she'd become little Doe to him. 'You stood there, like a deer in the headlights, looking stuck between bolting and dropping dead on the spot!'. Then he'd laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, the kind which exploded at inappropriate moments and made everyone in the room laugh, despite themselves. It came from his soul, from his precious, gentle, loving soul.

The tears blurred her eyes as she stared down into his. Still that melting chocolate brown, but they didn't twinkle now, not since the stroke.

“We danced all night, Alfie, remember? I had blisters the size of eggs next day, but it was magic, love, real magic. You always were light on your feet.”

Until the damn stroke. What kind of world did that to a man who spent his life moving, relied on his physical health? She'd tried so hard. Tried to bring him back, tried to move something she hoped was still deep in there, but he hadn't responded. Three years in and she'd finally had to admit that her beloved Alfie was gone, that his care was becoming too much for her.

She heard the heavy rumble of the ambulance outside, panic turning her face into a mask of fear and uncertainty, turning her into Doe. She gripped Alf's hands in hers, pressed them to her thin chest, begged him.

“Alfie, please, don't leave me like this. Tell me you are still in there somewhere. Help me do the work, like you always did, please.”

The doorbell rang and she scurried to fasten the last of his buttons, fussing around him, delaying opening that door and letting the smartly uniformed, always kind, but inevitably distant men take her husband from her. She tucked a clean hanky into his breast pocket, made to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead and gasped.

The doorbell brayed, unheeded. She shook from head to toe, her fingers vibrating over his face, searching, her eyes locked on his, pleading... and he heard. Somewhere deep inside, where her Alfie lived, locked away but battling to reach her, he heard and he winked. It was slow, laborious, a ponderous up and down movement, but it was a wink. She knew people would never believe her, would call it involuntary, but she knew, she believed, and she laid her weary head against his chest, let his heartbeat reassure her, as it always had.

“Alfie, that night, when you walked me home, you said you were going to marry me. You said it was your life's work, your purpose for existing. That night you became mine. Thank you, love. I can do the work now. We'll find a way.”

She kissed his cheek, dried her eyes and headed to the door, preparing to turn away the kind men from the care home. She had work to do.

The Anti-Bucket List - GBE2 prompt of the week

2011-12-02T13:54:00.000-08:00

I've been playing with this topic idea all week... To write a fiction piece or go with an actual blog about the fabled 'Bucket List'. You know, the hundred and one things I really should do before I kick the bucket... which I probably drowned in in the first place! Clumsy doesn't even begin to describe me. Anyway...

In truth, I don't have a bucket list, and I don't want one. I've found that the things I want to do happen if and when I am ready for them. So, here's my 'Anti-Bucket List'. In other words, some things I DON'T want to do before I die. Enjoy.

1 – Go to Egypt – From a very young age, perusing a copy of the Tutankhamen brochure, 'liberated' by my dad from the London exhibition, I knew I wanted to go to Egypt. I wanted to see pyramids rising majestically on the Giza Plateau. I wanted to walk through Amarna, in the footsteps of Akhenaten, and marvel at Hatshepsut's red temple. Then I grew up... I still love everything there is to see, hear, smell, touch and wonder at when it comes to my beloved Pharaohs, but I turn into a melting semblance of a waxwork mummy, complete with rivers of sweat and headaches that echo funerary drums the minute the temperature gets above 10 degrees Celsius! Logic tells me that Egypt is not the place for me. Today there is the wonder of the internet and this site in particular – Fabulous stuff – which allows me to travel without the heat. Oh yeah, I reckon the Pharaohs would have approved of not having to shift out of their palaces.

2 – Break any more toes – Honestly, when I said clumsy I meant it! I have broken all but one of my toes, some more than once, in the past (cough) umpty-umpty years. I usually break them by rounding corners and kicking radiator pipes where they connect through the floor. Don't ask me how, but I have an unerring instinct for this. It's a skill I tell ya! The best was probably karma biting me in the ass for being mean to a fluffy thing. I'd had a long day of screaming kids when the cats decided to join in. One went for another with really evil intent to wound and this rabid ball of fluff and claws was heading straight for one of the kids who was playing on the floor, and happened to be in the way of the fight.

There was nothing gonna stop this cat, certainly not something as insignificant as a child! I had another child on one arm, a pile of washing in the other and nothing free to stop this cat but my foot... You're ahead of me, aren't you? Yep, I kicked out in hopes of deflecting teeth, claws and cat cussing. The cat was faster. He jinked sideways and I kicked a chair. To my credit, I only dropped the washing, and I merely uttered 'Sugar' (but the most venomous use of that sweet word you have ever heard, believe me!). I ended up at the hospital with my little toe on my right foot pointing directly east in all its dislocated glory! Oh... and it was broken too (le sigh)

3 – Worry about my 'look' – The last time I was slim I was eleven. Then I nearly died during an appendix operation (it burst, blood poisoning, blah blah blah). From then on I put meat on my bones. It never once stopped me having the interest of men, skinny women looked at my boob shelf with some envy (if only they knew the back and neck pain!) and large women gave me conspiratorial smiles as we sashayed our voluptuousness around town, trailing wolf whistles in our wake.

What the ~~f....~~ happened? When did having a round bum and bouncy boobs become a sin? Where did all these rail thin women appear from? When did everyone suddenly become obsessed with being 'Hollywood' thin? It wasn't overnight, that I am sure of. It was creeping, insidious and it destroyed so many as it took over. Women were suddenly scared to be big. If you couldn't get into the smallest size there was something wrong with you. If you ate more than a lettuce leaf dipped in holy water for lunch you were going straight to the seventh doughnut of Hell. (sigh)

Enough already! Yeah, I'm a big girl. Yeah, I still carry a tummy from giving the world four intelligent, happy, productive kids. Yeah, I love to feed my family (and anyone else who drops by), I love cooking, and yeah, I take up cook's privilege more often than I should. Do I care? Nope. I do not give a flying fart! As long as I feel fit in myself, don't die walking (or even, on occasion, running) up the stairs and my blood pressure isn't visiting the space station, I can live with it. If I can, so should everyone else!

Ok, ranting done (smile). Enjoy the video. It seemed appropriate.

Bright Blessings

Mojo

Laughter - GBE2 Prompt

2011-11-25T16:53:00.000-08:00

Her laughter called to him. Alone on the shore, enshrined upon a rock, wallowing in his sorrow, her laughter swept in, freeing him of misery's grasp. He slipped booted feet onto moon-washed sand, scanning the beach, searching for the source of ringing joy. She appeared to dance out of the waves, auburn hair flying, twirling around her body. Her movements were sinuous, sensual, utterly abandoned. He was helpless before her.

Her dance flirted with the rushing sea. She danced out, sky-blue skirt flecked with fluffy white foam, whirling back as waves chased her toes, feet bare, flashes of bare calf tantalising him as he fled after her. She ignored his calls to wait, fluttering lashes hiding playful glances cast over her shoulder, laughter echoing, rebounding between dunes.

Still turning, reeling, stepping to some internal rhythm, she bent, scooped handfuls of minute shells and tossed them into the air. They fell about her, sparkling shards of confetti, moonbeams flashing from nacre in ghostly rainbows, filled with a myriad shades of white. He saw his chance, closed the distance, snatched for her elbow as she skittered away. Ever after he wondered who was caught in that instant. Then, all he knew was her cool skin under his work-knotted fingers, her peals of laughter as she drew him into her dance.

“Who are you? Where do you come from, you who dance in the moonlight on my shore?”

She giggled, then frowned, her question direct as her hazel-eyed gaze, their feet cavorting as their words tangled.

“You think to own the land which sustains you, princeling?”

“Twas my father's, and so comes to me.”

His grey eyes misted, his voice became weak. He felt the urge to pull away, hide weakness, his devastation at the loss of this father, but she would have no such disguise.

“Think you I know not grief because I laugh and dance? I grieve that men such as you think to own this world. Seek to carve her up with lines none can see, soaking her with blood in battles over these invisible lines. Come!”

Lying on his deathbed, decades hence, he could remember every second of that night. She sped her dancing feet, backing into the waves, his initial shock at the chill dissipated , shocked into history as she stepped up, following the path of the moon on the waves. She danced ever up and back, slowly, steadily drawing them higher. He trembled, his glance drawn inexorably down, fear seeking a hold as he realised he could no longer see waves, the sea or shore. She laughed, telling him to hold her gaze, to look only when she told him it was safe, but he could not resist. The path they trod glimmered, glistened and sparkled with every turn of her bare toes upon it. To him it appeared they danced on ghostly white moon roads, studded with gems of stardust.

He never understood how she danced them through time, across the sky, over continents. Or how she halted them, hundreds of feet in the air, standing calmly on a gleaming path of silvered moonlight, whenever she had something to show him. Not once did she free his hand from her bronzed touch. Eventually he forgot it, heedless of his perceived peril beneath the weight of her wisdom.

“Look down, princeling. What do you see?”

For long moments he could no more speak than understand her magics. He simply stared at the moon-washed emerald of the world beneath his floating feet. Mile after mile of empty land filled his vision from horizon to horizon. The only barriers to movement were rivers, streams, lakes and waterfalls. She made a convoluted gesture and he knew a moment of nausea, his vision suddenly zooming in, allowing him to observe the creatures of the world. They run hither and yon, not once heeding the lines his mind tried to impose upon the landscape, lines drawn by his father, his ancestors.

“Your lines mean nothing to them.”

“Where are the towns, the people?

“Come back.”

She reversed her earlier gesture and he battled sickness, drawn up once more, his vision expanding with discomforting rapidity. They fled over the world, their shadows playing tag below, the shades of giants, gods and monsters to the few folk who chanced to see strange visions in the night. Amongst the vastness of the fields, forests, deserts and natural spaces, tiny pockets of light began to appear. They were swamped, drowned in green, awash amid the encompassing blue. The pockets of humanity were tiny, insignificant, of no moment to the world.

“There are your towns, princeling. How important they seem, no? How vital to...”

He was unsure how long they spent dancing from beam to beam, spinning and whirling through starshine, ever reeling up and down, closing on creatures and fleeing back to continue their travels.

“...that hare?”

The creature continued to sleep beneath a hedge, oblivious as they whirred away.

“...To that fox?”

Burnished fur and bushy tail ignored the ephemeral shades, intent on pursuit of a mouse, crossing man's lines with impunity.

“...to that owl?”

Perhaps it was the owl, feathers whispering in graceful flight, soaring above the land, owner of nothing but content, at peace with the sleeping world, but something changed in the heart of the man. Forever after he would seek to break down the barriers between men, to erase the lines drawn in strong black on maps which bore no relation to reality.

Suddenly, his senses scrambled, she soared, whirling, dancing, waltzing, reeling, faster and faster, higher and higher, her joyous laughter streaming behind then, bubbling over her smiling lips as freely as water over falls.

“Remember this night, princeling. Remember that you. are no-one. No more than another creature hunting the land as do the hawk, the wolf and the bear. You have no more import than the smallest of mice. The land no more belongs to man than it does to an errant breeze. Hold these truths in your heart.”

She dropped like a stone, clutching him tight against her. Her hair entwined around his body, his laughter finally burbling up, flying as free as hers.

They landed gently back upon the shore. She stepped lightly, free of his grasp, her smile gentle.

“Take this and cleave to it when you falter, as you will, for you are but mortal.”

She placed a pale moonstone pendant in his hand, he clutching it to his heart, aware he was about to lose her.

“Will I see you again?”

“When it is your time. I will come for you. Remember that. And that I am always out here.”

“Your name?”

She smiled, dipped a graceful curtsey, already beginning her wandering, eternal dance back into the waves.

“I am the ocean gypsy, the world wanderer, she who is and will always be.”
A wave rolled in and she vanished within its foaming embrace.

Hometown Girl - BFF prompt

2011-11-20T08:15:00.000-08:00

Gill dragged back from lunch. The school-yard heaved, laughter and screams, heckles and pounding footfalls echoing off the brick walls. A car horn blasted her out of her miserable contemplation.

“Stay or go, I don't care, but get out of the road, child.”

Mr Graham, class 3B teacher. Some people were born to their jobs, a calling. Mr Graham hated kids and had found the perfect job to allow him to abuse them.

Gill crept to the kerb, forced into the car park by Graham's advance. Unable to loiter, herded by teacher and time, she crossed the threshold into the alien landscape beyond. Gill's playground times were split. Either general bullying because she never had time to stay, play, make friends, or alone, sat in a corner with her nose in a book, hiding. With ten minutes left until afternoon bell she skirted the edges of the sea, children ebbing and flowing, crashing occasionally against the pier of dinner nannies.

Rounding the corner of the crumbling Victorian building which housed Oliver Goldsmith primary school, her eyes alighted on the forbidden territory of the back staircase. The wide, deep, concrete steps led up to an entrance, giving egress to the internal stairwell, off limits to all children unless during fire drill. The deep recess with its pair of decrepit columns and carved wooden doors, adorned with a bulky, rusty padlock, served for a perfect hidey hole. Gill crept up the stairs, hugging the wall to hide her furtive movements from the ever vigilant nannies and prefects, slipping into the shadows of the door and settling to her book. Call of the Wild, speaking to the wolf who longed to be free in her timid heart.

Shade fell across her book and she smiled; a thing of fleeting brightness, rarely shown. Daisy grinned back, pretty much the only person Gill considered a friend.

“Can you hang round after school tonight?”

Gill knew better. Somewhere deep in her heart a little voice screamed about how much trouble she was storing up for herself, but sometimes she couldn't take it any more. She needed to break free, be a child. Ten was too young to be carrying so many burdens. She nodded slowly.

“Sure?” Daisy asked, sometimes uncomfortably perceptive, although never breaking through the shroud of silence which surrounded abuse, unhappy home lives. Gill shrugged.

“What's happening?”

“Tell you later” Daisy called over the bell, kids streaming into regimental lines ready for afternoon battles with Romans, long division and country dancing.

Gill knew a moment of terrified doubt when the final bell sounded and children streamed onto the streets. Some ran to parents sporting tape and glue monstrosities which were received with loving bemusement. Others grouped, walked together, nonchalant in their independence. She almost bolted but, approaching the car park gates, she spotted Daisy chatting to Daniel. Too young to recognise the strange flutters in her stomach, the increase in heart-rate, Gill only knew that she wished Daniel would notice her, be her friend. Again, the urge to run from the unknown situation flared, but Daisy called her by name, waved her over. Gill noticed another couple of boys heading their way, joining the growing group. She stuck around the edges, listening.

It was an old story, one known to every community, big or small. Next to the school ran a terrace of houses. They were crumbling, old, overgrown in gardens and cracked in panes. In short they were the perfect setting for 'The Ghost Story'. Every child comes across the story, usually just before adolescence, and Peckham was no different. The story always appeared replete with capital letters in the title, hushed, even awed tones in the telling and ended with uneasy laughter and not a few sleepless nights for the audience. It didn't surprise Gill when Daniel took up the telling. He was confident and intelligent, top of the class, the only thing she shared with him.

The group retired to wooden benches against the wall which adjoined the 'haunted' houses. Daniel took a dramatic breath, scanned them all for attention levels and launched into a fairly standard, 'girl meets handsome man, marries him, dies in mysterious circumstances and haunts the house forever with evil intent' story. Gill, ever an observer, surreptitiously surveyed the faces, noting how rapt each face had become, how intent, deep in suspension of disbelief, hesitant glances flicking to the darkening gardens over the low wall. By the time Daniel rose to his feet, paused for dramatic effect and then swept an accusatory hand toward the houses, it was almost full dark, the winter night chill and perfect cover for scared shivers.

“This very house is where the ghost lived. They say she was driven insane by the strange death of her sister, eventually dying by poison and her ghost comes out to consume wandering souls on nights with a full moon!”

Even Gill found herself looking up, uneasy smiles appearing on faces lighted by the moon sailing majestically through the wisps of cloud above. The story session over, small groups were forming, readying for the walk home. As they clambered over the locked gates, contemplating the pools of orange lamp-light, fearing the darkness between each glowing island, Daniel and Daisy formed up beside Gill. The groups began to part, voices tremulous or too loud, hiding internal unease. The three were alone in heading toward Dalwood Street. Daniel and Daisy fell into easy chatter about the current class project but Gill found herself watching the scarred windows of the houses.

The house closest to the school was by far the most dilapidated. The garden wall had fallen into the basement stairwell, ivy tendrils all that held it together. The stone steps leading to its battered front door were lost under thick drifts of leaves, giving off a pungent, earthy aroma. The door hung inward, a single hinge all that stood between it and the fall into oblivion. The very bricks seemed ancient, decayed beyond their true age. She wondered how such a building could still stand, how not fall into the rubble it yearned to be.

Her steady concentration meant she did not at first recognise what she was seeing. It took several flickers, wavery, misty, before she realised a flame was feathering light on the boarded upper windows.

“Guys, hey!”

Her sudden interruption stopped the chattering pair in their tracks, heads turning in curiosity. She pointed to the red glow, deepening rapidly.

“I think there's a fire. Should we get the fire brigade?”

The local station was at the top of the road and would arrive in less than a minute.

Daniel stared and then yelled.

“There's someone in there. A kid!”

Before the girls could speak or move, Daniel vaulted the rusted iron gate and hared around the side of the house.

Daisy hesitated, looked from the house to Gill and took off running.

“Help him! I'll get the fire guys.”

Gill paused, watched the upper windows and saw a brief shadow within the fire glow. It looked like no child. Rather it was tall, thin, decidedly feminine, and seemed to be heading deeper into the house, perhaps searching for stairs. Tramps, of both genders, were a common feature of London life and they often slept in abandoned buildings. Gill gave up on thinking and ran into the garden, her eyes searching the dim, weed clogged grounds for any sign that Daniel had passed through. She swore furiously, bending to rub her barked shin, vaguely making out an upturned barrow in the tangle of grass. Turning her attention back up, to the house, her breath froze in her chest, her eyes so wide they ached for days after.

Daniel stood, knee deep in scrubby bushes and bindweed, transfixed. Gill tried to move her limbs but got no response, her voice as stilled as her body. She watched in helpless horror as a pale figure billowed from the rear door of the house. It drifted, ghost white, ephemeral, more rippling rags than substance, gradually enveloping the petrified boy. As he disappeared from view, absorbed, obliterated without a murmur, an exultant shriek issued from the rags. A face exploded forth, screeching toward Gill, her legs becoming jelly, dropping her into the undergrowth. The stench of mould, earth, damp and the rust of blood swirled around her prone form. An image lingered, rotted teeth, bleeding eyes and matted hair held in place by a rusted, garnet and pearl encrusted tiara. The weight of its passing forced her down, mind collapsing, thought impossible. Flames licked out of the windows, glass, wood and brick detonating in every direction.

In the final seconds before Gill passed out she saw an image which would stay with her forever. Daniel's body floated clear of the enshrouding rags, a dry husk, wrinkled, aged and barely recognisable. Slender arms dumped his corpse into the raging fire taking hold of the garden foliage, arms wrapped in red silk, arms attached to a young woman, whose flaming red hair was held in place by a delicate tiara set with garnets and pearls. She grinned and disappeared around the side of the building.

Author's notes - Ok, this is semi-autobiographical. All the locations, in Peckham, London, are real and the pictures of the places are taken directly from Google Maps. Little has changed on this side of the school (although the front is very different.) I will allow my readers to wonder which details are real and which fantasy. Have fun pondering *wink*

Soldier Boy - BFF prompt

2011-11-19T15:48:00.000-08:00

Sunlight filtered through the foliage above the pair. The elder lay against the sturdy oak trunk, his chin sunk deep on his chest, hands limp in his lap. The younger took point, scanning all sides from beneath the shade of his hand. The sound of crows squabbling, macabre tenders of the battlefield, screeched across both weary minds. The elder heaved a thick sigh, coughed, spat ruby blood onto emerald grass and rasped;

“Robert, here.”

Conditioned through the years, the younger snapped his attention to his superior, scurrying, dropping to one knee beside the struggling man. His muscles screamed their exhaustion, trying to aid the mail-clad knight to greater comfort.

“Do you see them, boy?”

Robert cast another look about, desperate hope in his eyes, sunk deep in weary bruising.

“Nothing, Sire. They will come...”

It was as much question as reassurance. The knight forced his mangled right arm to hold his weight as he strained to reach the pendant about his neck. Frustrated, he ripped it free, the effort causing a rivulet of fresh blood to trickle over his chin. He waved the boy's solicitous, ragged, kerchief away and forced breath into his lungs.

“Listen to me, Robert, listen well. Take this to Lady Alicia. Place it in no hand but hers and give her my last words.”

“No, Sire!” the boy's mingled terror and grief tore at the knight’s faltering heart, “Help is coming. They...”

“Hush, lad.” The words were firm, but held kindness, understanding, “I am no man's fool, and I do not fight with the gods. It is my time. I die on the field, as a man should. Not for me the enfeebling burden of years. I go to glory, Robert, allow me to go with your love and obedience to lift me.”

Tears flooded the boy's eyes, but he knuckled them away, strained, achieved a faint smile and nodded.

“Keep a place for me, Sire.”

“Not just yet, huh? You have a task to fulfil. Your last as my squire.”

He pressed the locket into the boy's hand. A hand so small, so tender and untried, unlined and innocent of blood. Praying silently that it was also a strong hand, capable of the task ahead, he continued.

“Give this into Alicia's hands, along with these words. 'Alicia, my heart, I did the best I could for you, for our sons. The land is secure, our foes defeated. Care for our boys, teach them who I was and, I hope, to be as I was. I will await you above. Hold me in your heart as I do you.'. Do you have that?”

Robert nodded, but repeated the message twice for the knight's surety. Content he had done all he could to ensure his words and his pendant of office would reach his widow, the knight sighed. He allowed his gaze to alight on the pale rose and glowing pink of the setting sun. His life left him as darkness fell. The boy wept, burying his face against the unforgiving, beloved mail. Mail he had polished until his hands bled, his love for his sire so deep and true that nothing would stop him completing his final task.

“I cannot leave you thus, Sire.”

He murmured, gently closing those staring, blind eyes, binding limp arms to broad chest with the saddle cloth from a slain warhorse which lay close by.

A battered, abandoned shield served for a spade. He did not note the hours passing, only deepening the hole, eyes often blinded by tears. He winced at the unholy thud accompanying the knight's final journey into the earth, summoned an almost forgotten prayer of childhood, hoping it would send the knight blessed upon his way, and began to fill the hole. The sun lifted above the horizon with the final clod dropping into place. Robert found a broken blade, used it to scratch rough letters into the shield, marking the knight's final resting place clearly for future return to his home and then stood. His back stretched and spasmed, eleven summers not enough to cope with the strain of burying a full-grown man. His body ached to sit, to lay, to sleep, but the task remained. He began to walk.

It was three weeks before he came in sight of his Lord's lands. Returning knights had given him occasional rides. Once, a hay wagon had taken him four days on his way. He had longed to sleep in the prickly, sweet-scented hay, but sleep would not come. His bleary mind tried to tell him he hadn't slept since the knight's death, but he knew that could not be true. Just fancies of an exhausted body. The grey, solid towers of his home since birth swam into view, appearing through cool morning mists and Robert began to run, the pendant clutched tightly in his hand, creating a bruised echo of itself on his palm.

He stumbled across the drawbridge, weaving clumsily between scurrying servants and clattering knights, chased by hounds and cats, eager to join his fun. He fled through corridors, his internal compass, laid down over his tenure as pot boy and general 'go-fetch', guiding his numb feet to the doors of the great hall. Bursting through the doors, he was brought to an abrupt halt, a gauntleted hand grabbing his collar and lifting him clear of the floor.

“No entry, kiddo.” a gruff voice announced, but Robert was not to be denied.

He waved the pendant in his hand, agilely keeping it out of reach.

“My Lord, I was with him at the last. He ordered me to bring this to Lady Alicia.”

“Give it here, boy.”

“NO!”

Robert flung himself about wildly, desperate to be free. His action brought the clip of gentle feet, a soft, tired voice.

“What problem, sir knight?”

“This boy...”

Robert finally wrangled his way free, the arrival of Lady Alicia enough to give him strength. He fell on his knees before her, proffering the pendant. Her gasp of recognition was enough, the knights grouped about drawing back, giving the boy his due respect as he poured out his tale. All lowered their heads, many shedding tears, as he told of the final battle, of his Lord's victory and isolated death. Lady Alicia wept openly as Robert repeated her husband's dying words, she swearing to do as he asked.

Their two sons arrived, drawn by the commotion. Only two and three years older than Robert, they were yet bigger, muscled and already to be reckoned with on the field. They took their mother's attention, offering her comfort, Robert gradually being pushed to the rear of the growing crowd of mourners. With no little relief, and no chagrin at being forgotten, he sank against a vaulted pillar, allowing his eyes to slowly droop and close. A strange feeling grew in his chest, a deep ache accompanied by a comforting warmth. It grew and suffused his thin, bloodied body.

Even as Lady Alicia caught a glimpse of the boy sinking limply to the floor, calling for aid, Robert was gone, seeking the place his Lord would be holding for him in eternity, his final duty performed.

Surprises - For the GBE2 prompt

2011-11-18T03:02:00.000-08:00

Casey curled deeper into the chair, biting savagely at her nails. She'd heard the spiel from Emma approximately 14 times now, not that she was counting. 'She's a good kid, just a little troubled' and 'It's understandable, after the problems with her birth family'. Not to mention,'She just needs the right people; patient enough to look for the loving child under the 'care' exterior'.

“Isn't that right, Casey?”

Lost in her bitter reverie, Casey had no idea what Emma was asking her, settling for a particularly teenage shrug, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. Emma smiled indulgently, returning her attention to Mr and Mrs Average (Jenny and David Jefferson, Emma had informed her prior to the meeting, with the codicil 'Try to be pleasant'). Casey appeared exactly as she wanted the adults to see her. Sullen, withdrawn, damaged goods nobody would want, but she was studying.

Looking from beneath lowered lashes, Casey watched the bright smiles, the puppy-like eagerness of the man, the apple-pie sweetness of the woman and groaned inside. Another set of do-gooders intent on turning her into Miss Teen Prom Queen. It would be three months trial and then 'We're so sorry, Casey...' followed by whatever pathetic, conjured excuse they could think of to get rid of her. What they said this time didn't matter any more. She'd be 18 in three months and free of care homes, foster parents and do-gooding social idiots for the rest of her life.

She smothered a burgeoning smile, aware Emma's attention was heading her way.

“So, Casey, are we willing to try this placement?”

Casey hated that word. It sounded like she was being put on a shelf, prominently displaying her adoptability to the world. A world that had no interest in her brand of 'product'.

“Whatever.” she muttered, Emma turning a radiant, lying smile on the Jeffersons.

They didn't give her time to make excuses. David rose, Jenny close behind, both smiling gently.

“Time to fetch your things, Casey, and go home.”

“I don't have one.” she spat, waving her small rucksack of worldly possessions at the couple.

“You might be surprised.” Jenny winked.

Emma walked them from the building with unseemly haste. They paused by the car, Casey noting it was new; money then.

“I truly hope we don't see you back here, Casey.” she said with feeling.

Casey adopted a sneering smile in reply.

“It's mutual, believe me.”

She yanked open a rear door and clambered into the car, slamming Emma out forcefully. She watched sidelong as the three adults exchanged final words and then they were moving.

After some initial, rebuffed, attempts to engage Casey in conversation about her likes and dislikes, the Jeffersons gave up and the journey was completed to the uninterrupted strains of the Carpenters. Casey sent her mind to its safe place. Growing up she'd used it every night. Sometimes to avoid listening to the sounds from Mum's room as she earned money to keep them fed, sometimes to hide from the men who left Mum's room and visited hers, bringing pain, fear and shame. She was far away when the car stopped on a neatly raked, gravel drive before a double fronted house just short of mansion status.

“Casey, sweetie? Wake up, we're home.”

Casey used her pretended drowsiness to hide how impressed she was by the house, allowing them to lead her inside, taking in every expensive fixture and fitting as she was guided to her room. David threw open the door, handing her the key, with a childish 'Surprise!'. She found herself struggling to keep up her sullen demeanour when the door swung wide to reveal her new accommodation. Going from a one room 'cell' at the care home to a suite of three rooms, including a huge bathroom with sunken bath and monogrammed towels was almost enough to shake her loose from her tightly controlled shell. Almost...

“We'll let you explore, settle in a little. Maybe you'd come down for dinner, in a couple of hours, Casey?”

Casey shrugged, choosing to ignore the slight disappointment in David's eyes, the reassuring glance from Jenny to her husband that said 'Don't fret, give her time.' as they withdrew, closing the door behind them.

Sure they were gone, Casey locked the door and gave herself over to adoration. The bed was deep, soft, warm, curtained and purple, her favourite colour. The rugs and carpets in the bedroom and lounge area were soft lilac and like walking on clouds. The tv was HD, widescreen and appeared magically from a slot in the floor. A stereo sailed serenely into view from the wall at the press of a button, speakers discreetly peeking from strategic places about the rooms, even the bathroom. A long, empty rack slid from another wall. Casey spotted a slip of paper dangling from it. She read it with a wicked smile.

'We weren't sure what music you like. Fill these racks as you please. There's a credit card in the draw of your night-stand. 'Surprise!' David and Jenny'

She spent the next hour exploring, flinging open the double wardrobe, initially saddened by its emptiness and then finding another note telling her the credit card could be used to buy clothes too. The only piece hanging inside was a huge, fluffy white bathrobe with her name in purple lettering on the breast. A plan began to formulate as Casey shed her cheap clothes, slipping into the robe and heading for the bathroom. It became concrete as she wallowed in rose scented foam, giggling at the

cascades of bubbles and random whirlpools created by yet more magic buttons. By the time she slipped into the soft slippers beside her bed and unlocked the door Casey had a new disguise.

Her campaign was as subtle as the Jefferson's was blatant. For a month the days took on a pattern. David appeared at the dinner table two nights into Casey's tenure and plopped a box on her plate.

“Open it, sweetie.” he urged and she obeyed, careful not to show enthusiasm. It was a laptop, with her signature purple for a cover.

“Surprise!” Jenny enthused, “Now you can order your clothes and music online.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr and Mrs Jefferson.”

“Please, Casey, call us Jenny and David.” he asked and Casey cast a shy, fleeting glance at his face.

“Perhaps. Give me time, please.”

“Of course, of course.” Jenny tugged David down into his seat, trying to hide the hope in her eyes.

And so it continued. Surprise! Have a smart phone. 'Thank you... David'. Surprise! Have a puppy! 'Oh! Thank you, Jenny.' 'Surprise! Let's fly to Paris. Oh wow... I'm being spoiled. Thank you' accompanied by the briefest of smiles. As April turned into May, Jenny and David were no longer hiding their happy hopes and Casey was managing the odd hug which sent the pair into transports of delight. By July they were talking about adoption, Casey carefully cultivating her uncertainty, internally laughing at Emma's disbelief when she came for a visit.

Casey's 18^th was spent in the Alps, at an exclusive spa where she rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous. At the end of the week, back home, David and Jenny stood by a shrouded lump in the drive yelling, a somewhat redundant, 'Surprise!'. Casey whipped the purple cloth off her shiny silver sports model and allowed a broad smile with her 'thank you, now all I need is a few driving lessons'. David laughed and Jenny handed over an envelope containing the car keys and vouchers for driving lessons.

A couple of years passed in a whirl of new socialising, being apprenticed to a chocolatier (David and Jenny's family business), and being officially adopted. Occasionally, Casey would take off, find a seedy dive in the back of beyond and let rip. Her true nature did not appreciate hiding behind saccharine and syrup, and those nights were wild, debauched and expensive, leaving her exhausted, sated and able to carry on with the plan.

Five years in, having salted away several million in a secret account, with a new identity in the glove-box of her new car, Casey came up from the cellar on a Thursday night. Her smile was broad as she climbed the stairs to David and Jenny's bedroom. It widened, was joined by a high, shrieking laugh as she flung open the door.

“Surprise!” she screamed, charging into the room.

David shot out of bed, staggered a little, tried to hush Jenny's terrified whimpers and, much to Casey's surprise, came at her. She took an instant to admire his bravery before swinging the axe and burying it deep into his skull. As he was falling, she took after Jenny. The shivering, cowering woman was backing up. Where she was heading Casey never knew. Instead she flung herself forward, connected both flat palms squarely against Jenny's shoulders and watched with satisfaction as the woman flailed her way backward, out the window and descended wetly on the patio below.

Without another glance, Casey left the house, jumped in the car and headed for the private jet waiting on the airstrip. She hurried aboard, watched the door close, heard the pilot enter the forward cabin, the engine start, and relaxed into her seat, smiling, giggles bubbling in her chest. The bubbles turned bloody in her throat as a shot caused echoes in the cabin, pain blooming in her body. Her dying glance saw Emma swim into view. Emma with a parachute on her back, Casey's new identity clasped in her hand.

“Surprise!”

Emma grinned, opened the door and tumbled out to freedom.

The Devil's in the Details

2011-11-08T03:37:00.000-08:00

Mary held her breath as she lifted the ornate mirror. Removing it for cleaning was a monthly task, one which she dreaded. She tried to believe it was the fiddly brass frame, the work it involved, which had her hands shaking and her breath caught, but she knew better. Her mother had been of superstitious stock and it had osmosed into Mary over the years.

Always salute magpies, especially the single ones. Don't cross knives on a plate. Don't cross on the stairs. Don't stir the teapot. Never open an umbrella in the house. Don't keep peacock feathers in the house. Don't walk under ladders. And of course, seven years bad luck for every broken mirror. Bad luck that couldn't have the decency to run concurrently. Oh no, if you broke two mirrors that was fourteen years of bad luck. The list of don'ts could have filled a library by the time Mary's mother went into the mysteries of the beyond... and Mary was stuck with them all.

She'd inherited the mirror from her grandmother and had never had the heart to get rid of it, despite its clumsy appearance and patchy glass. She laid it on the table, padded with three layers of thick towels, and headed to the counter to collect the Brasso and cleaning cloths. A flash of silvery light caught her attention. She glanced to her feet and noted a pin glittering in the sunlight. She swooped, retrieved it and smiled. 'See a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck' recited in her head and she smiled. One of the few good luck sayings. She popped the pin on the surface and bent to the cupboards beneath, searching for polish.

Her back seized when she came up. She gripped the counter for support and gave an involuntary gasp at a sharp pain in her index finger. Her back eased instantly and she frowned at her finger, a couple of ruby drops already gleaming on the pad. She rolled her eyes and sighed, realising she'd grabbed the pin. She flicked it to the rear of the counter, plucked up a cleaning cloth and dabbed at the tiny puncture before heading back to the mirror.

For the next hour, using toothbrushes, cloths and polish, she worked on the ugly mirror. She could never really decide what was worse. Staring at the cherubs which pranced about the frame, cherubs with such evil expressions they were closer to demons, or gazing at herself in the hazy glass. Patches of her face took on a scarred appearance where hairline cracks fled over her pale, drawn skin. Spots where the backing had come through made her cheeks look leprous. Her sunken eyes, the black circles beneath, the general pinched look she currently wore all conspired to make neither option pleasurable.

Her final task was always to polish the glass, ensuring not so much as a hint of a smear remained. She reached for the final cloth and gave a grunt of frustration, realising it was the one she had dabbed her blood up with.

“Sorry, Gran.” she murmured to the ceiling and set to with the cloth. A couple of times she had to turn it, rebuff when the not quite dry blood smeared onto the glass, but she was finally done. The mirror travelled back to its spot above the mantel and she heaved a sigh of relief.

Halfway through turning to leave she stopped dead, transfixed by two glowing red orbs deep within the mirror. The more she stared, the deeper and clearer they became. She had to literally shake herself, break the spell when she caught the smell of burning. Burning hair to be exact. Her vision cleared, she saw a wisp of smoke curling up from behind her. Spinning around, batting at her hair, she remembered the two candles which burned on the shelf opposite the mirror. Always alight, standing sentinel over Gran's urn and photo, she'd forgotten them, must have backed into them and caught a little of her hair. She blew them out with angry puffs and left, slamming the door and stomping out to the kitchen.

Five minutes later she was curled up on the sofa with a bottle of wine, a huge box of chocolates and Love Story on the dvd player. She hated herself, somewhere deep inside, for her behaviour, but the need to wallow in self-pity was, for now, far outweighing the need to get herself together. She sobbed her way through the movie, her cheeks gradually flushing with alcohol, her lips stained with chocolate and Greg's name on her lips with every breath. The same old questions, how, why, when, who, where? She knew all the answers, tormented herself with them, pictured the two of them together, happy, laughing whilst she was left to wallow, broken of heart and wounded to her very soul.

The last thought actually made her giggle. She sounded like some emo teen, not a mature woman of … well, old enough to know better. A wickedness took her, her mind conjuring up images of horrible, but somehow comical, situations the new 'couple' could be in, whilst she lay on the sofa, full of wine and goodies. She was in the middle of a particularly vicious scenario about peanuts, a blowtorch and a naked Greg, when she was snapped back to reality by the doorbell.

She flicked her eyes to the clock, noted it was one in the morning and decided to ignore it. If it was important they'd come back. She creaked upright, shuffling with stiffness from laying still, and made it to bed. She absently closed the door to the mirror room as she passed.

A couple of hours later she shivered awake, cold to her core. She grabbed the duvet up, surrounding herself with it and went in search of the draught which seemed to be chilling the entire house. Finding no open doors or windows, dragging her duvet shroud behind her, she headed back to bed, once again closing the door to the mirror room without conscious thought.

The words which echoed through her foggy brain at 5am were definitely not polite. She wondered if she'd been dreaming, but no, there went the doorbell again. She flew up out of bed, flung a dressing gown on, stormed down the hall, slammed the mirror room door shut and hurled open the front door. All angry sentences fled her brain as she contemplated the man propped, pale and interesting, against her door-frame. His, she noted expensive, clothes were ripped and looked to be painted with dust and artistically placed oil smears. A trickle of ruby blood ran down from his left eyebrow, passed by his brilliant green eyes, over an impossibly sharp cheekbone and kissed the corner of his full mouth before caressing his firm chin and...

Mary dragged her eyes up from the v of his open shirt, mentally kicked herself for perving on an injured man, no matter how bloody gorgeous, and stepped back, clearing the doorway.

“Please, come in. What happened to you?”

She supported him, draping his arm across her shoulders, kicking the door shut with her heel and guiding him to the kitchen.

“An accident. Not sure what hit me. Happened a few hours ago on the road out front.”

A lightbulb all but lit up over Mary's head as she realised the poor guy had probably tried to get her help in the early hours. The mirror room door clicked open as they passed and she closed it heedlessly, asking the man's name as they reached the kitchen and she set him in a chair by the table.

“Seth.”

She introduced herself, wondering if she should apologise as she hunted out her first aid kit. He smiled, wincing a little, when she returned to the table.

“It's ok, I wouldn't have opened the door in the same situation.”

She gaped for a second, remembered herself and began dealing with the blood on his face. It turned out to come from a cut on his forehead, up by his hairline. Mary found herself struggling to keep from running her fingers through his hair as she held it clear of his face.

“Doesn't make it right. Where did you go?”

“You do know you're in the middle of nowhere, right? I think I passed out on your doorstep.”

Her guilt grew. She found herself supplying him with one of Greg's old shirts, making him tea and toast, offering to help in any way she could.

“Your car?”

He shook his head, wincing again, sending her scurrying for painkillers.

“I was on foot.”

“Where on earth were you going? There's nothing round here.”

“Yeah, so I noticed. I was supposed to be getting married tomorrow,” He indicated the torn clothes, she realising it was a hired suit, “Girl dumped me. Mates took me drinking and I think I took off. No idea where I am really.”

She didn't normally fall for the helpless little boy routine, but this time she felt she could indulge. She insisted he take her bed, get some sleep. They'd deal with everything when he'd warmed up, had some rest, felt clearer. She spent the day pottering about the house, baking, making a salad, some pasta, chicken soup. She even had a bath and did her hair. Distracted, she didn't realise how many times she had to close the door to the mirror room.

Later, when Seth was up, warm, bathed, fed, and generally being the most beautiful man she'd ever seen, she found herself taking him around the house. It was old, he was fascinated by everything and she found herself wanting to be in his company for as long as possible.

“Me too.” he whispered as they entered the mirror room.

“Sorry?” she asked, lighting the candles and revealing the hated mirror.

“I know it's forward, and probably creepy, but you're very pretty.”

Mary blushed hiding her confusion in attempts to keep the candles lit around her Gran. They refused all attempts, guttering repeatedly.

“Don't they say it's unlucky to see your face in a mirror by candlelight? Mary?”

She felt him behind her, warm and strong, felt her defences crumbling as his hands fell on her shoulders, turned her to face him, their reflections shadowy in the mirror lit only by the hall light.

“Yes?”

“Tell me you feel it too? That this was meant to be.”

“I've spent my life trying not to believe all those superstitions, Seth.”

“Make an allowance, this once, for me?”

Deep in the mirror, two red orbs glowed brighter than any candle flame. Seth glanced up, stared back and for a split second his eyes were glaring reflections of the orbs. He nodded minutely, buried a devilish grin in Mary's shoulder, then both the mirror and the photograph fell, shattering, spraying glass everywhere. Mary skittered deeper into Seth's embrace, lost to the world.

Author's Note - Yep, I'm back.... and no-one died! (Yet) Anyway, this is quite a traditional little yarn about mirrors and devils, but there are a couple of notes I thought might interest.

The name Seth means 'One who dazzles' (here) which I thought was very appropriate for our wicked visitor *grin*

Inspiration actually came from these lines at the end of the Stevie Wonder song (here) - When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer. Superstition ain't the way...

Finally, there are many superstitions about candles and you can read them (here)

Bright Blessings

Mojo

New story!

2011-10-22T12:23:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of input lately. With my uni course and various home things, I just haven't had much time! However, I did write a little tale and it made it into this anthology. All proceeds go to the charity Medecins Sans Frontieres and I would love it if you can pick up a copy. I promise I'll be back to writing as soon as I can!
Bright Blessings
Mojo

A lovely award

2011-09-13T06:17:00.000-07:00

First I want to say thanks to Steven (go visit him here) for my award. I'll avoid a speech. Don't want to go all Gwyneth on you ;o)
Now, the idea is to pass this award on so here's the deal:

The award is given to bloggers who have less than 200 followers, as a way to help spread the word that their blog is awesome and deserves more exposure. If you get the award, this is what you do:

1. Pop over and thank the person who gave you the award and link back to their blog
2. Pass the award on to 5 bloggers and let them know they have been given the award.

Now, I suggest visiting the fabulous bloggers listed below, to whom I have awarded the Liebster award ;o)

1 - The delightful Kyle, here
2 - One funny lady, Joyce, here
3 - Amazing Amy, here
4 - Fluffy Langley, here
5 - The beautifully brilliant Ardith, here

Time Lapse - Writer's Post prompt

2011-09-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

May gazed at the tray of muffins in her hands. They were warm, golden, dotted with bright drops of cherry, perfect. She turned, rested them on the kitchen surface, continued to stare. Cooking flotsam surrounded her, spoons encrusted with dough, knives dripping butter and cherry bits. A slew of muffin cases fluttered across the worktop, a couple drifting to the floor in the draught from the open back door.

May stooped, picked them up and absently stuffed them back into their case, her mind trying to get a grip on the situation. She remembered deciding to make the muffins. She could picture herself gathering ingredients, setting the oven to heat, checking the butter was soft enough to begin. Then came the gap. They happened frequently now. Little lapses where she couldn't remember completing a task. She'd learned to put on a bright smile, to nod when people thanked her for a visit, reminded her of a phone conversation, a date she'd made. Just agree, figure it out later.

The problem had become the fact that she couldn't figure it out. The gaps were getting longer, blanker. At first, when she'd started to notice little empty spaces in her schedule, she'd put it down to tiredness. After all, she had three kids, a husband, a home to run and a job to hold down. She was entitled to the odd blonde moment. Absences which she could piece together with little reminders from friends or family.

A phone call to her mum which she didn't remember would be filled in when her mother next called. A chat to Rhonda, next door, over the fence, puzzled into place when they next spoke, or a chore, a date she forgot and had to be reminded of by those around her. Now, she couldn't remember, even when people filled in the gaps. The spaces remained stubbornly empty, her smile brighter and broader to compensate. Her absent-mindedness had become a standing joke with her family.

She transferred the muffins to a cooling rack, dunked the baking tray in the sink and headed for the garden. She did her best thinking in the garden, curled up on a rug in the gazebo. For a moment, as she settled on her back, staring up through the tangle of ivory roses at the cloudless sky, she wondered if she was supposed to be somewhere.

“No use worrying.” she murmured, “I won't remember.”

Her eyes closed, her nose filling with the scent of roses, her ears catching the trill of a songbird in the hedgerow. 'I'll sleep, think I've lost time again' she thought, feeling the paralysis that accompanies falling into sleep, her limbs stilled, unresponsive. A wasp fled by her nose, startling her enough to force her eyes open, despite her inertia.

Her frozen face could not register her shock, her muscles could not tense, force her upright, to chase the retreating figure. The form was moving out of her field of vision, but she knew the retreating figure. No, not retreating but going forward, leaving her behind. That it was herself barely registered on her mind. What captured her attention was how the figure jerked from one movement to the next. It reminded her of those old movies where frames seemed to jump from moment to moment. She was walking away from herself in frames of time.

Too soon she was alone. She had walked on, into the time yet to be, leaving herself in the time that was. She lay, staring up, mostly numb, unthinking, unfeeling, but for one observation. She watched the tight green bud which dangled from the gazebo above her head. It unfurled, paper-thin petals curling out, drying off, fluttering in the breeze... which jerked through each second. The ivory rose blossomed and failed in the space of an hour, frame by frame, dying in stop-motion. It couldn't happen, but she counted through each minute; one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, keeping pace with time which fled ahead of her, watched in immobile disbelief.

Coldness on her cheek brought her attention to her skin. A tear rolled in single frame leaps over her cheekbone. This realisation was jolted out of her mind, literally. Electricity crackled through her body, every hair in her skin standing to attention, her back arching, snapping up from the ground and slamming back down in an instant. With the charge still leaping through her body, she bolted upright, caught between relief at renewed movement and shock that someone crouched beside her.

The young man, shamefaced, eyed the taser in his hand, and shrugged.

“Sorry. It's the best way to snap laggers awake.”

“Laggers?”

“You, me.” he helped her to her feet, joints stiff, body still tingling, “That's what we're called.”

“We?”

“Yeah. Look, let's get you a cup of soup and set you straight.”

Her head whirling, May gave in to the urge to be looked after. The young man introduced himself as Gary, curling her arm over his and leading her back to the kitchen.

A few minutes later they sat at the table, May with a steaming cup of chicken soup, produced from a packet in Gary's pocket. When asked, he said it was like the taser gun, something that worked. He waited for her to drink some, saw her settle a little, stop jittering and stammering, and then began to explain.

“I'm bet you've been having time loss, right?” May nodded, “Yeah, that's how it starts for all of us. It's how we got our name. We lag out, lose patches of time with little to no recollection of those gaps. No-one understands it yet, but some people fall out of regular time. We slip behind the minutes, more and more, until we fall out of the time stream completely.”

May stared, swallowed, failed to speak, and went back to staring, the soup going cold, unheeded as she listened.

“A couple of science guys fell out of time, like us. They come up with theories, discard them, make up new ones, but there is no answer. Not yet. Laggers end up in the most uneven of races, chasing time. Did you see the frames?”

“You mean... like stop-motion?”

“Yeah, that's not a bad description. Laggers end up walking alongside time, watching it move on without us, one frame at a time. We can't catch up. We're always that one second, that single frame, off the pace.”

“What do I do?”

“Say what you mean, May. It's ok to say it.”

“How do I get back?”

“You don't.”

“Then... What do I do?”

“You run behind, chase time, forever.”

“There must be another way!”

Gary stilled, seemed to listen and then grabbed May's hand, dragging her through the house, out the front door, along the road. She tugged, tried to halt their forward motion but his grip on her hand tightened, his face a mask of fear.

“What is going on?” she yelled, struggling to keep his pace, watching time run away, one step at a time, ahead of them.

“Time's catching up with us. Run!”

“I don't understand...!”

“I know. Just run, May.”

As they fled forward, always a second adrift, May heard a faint, persistent whirr. She glanced back over her shoulder, halted, stumbled as Gary pulled her on, and bit down a scream. Behind her, filling the world from side to side, great silver discs turned, rolling relentlessly forward, toward them. May kept glancing back, watching in mingled terror and awe as the discs spun and the world was pulled onto the discs, seeming to settle into barely visible grooves on the gleaming surfaces.

“What are they?”

Gary shrugged.

“We don't know, but they seem to catch everything, maybe store it. All we can do is run, keep ahead of them. After a while they turn off, when it gets dark. We'll have a chance to get away from them then, put some distance between us.”

“They store everything?”

“Almost.” Gary shuddered and May insisted, urging him to be honest with her.

“My friend, John. We'd been here a while, stumbled across each other one day. Travelled together. Good guy.|”

“What happened to him?”

"The discs came. John was too slow. They rolled over him. I could see him, running behind the discs, trying to get back to me. I had to run, but I looked back. Wish I hadn't. When the discs left him behind, he was erased.”

“Erased?”

“He just disappeared, like he was wiped out of existence. The science guys think anyone who lags behind the discs is erased, like useless stuff, not worth storing, but we just don't know.”

May shrieked, the light suddenly failing, like a switch being turned off, leaving them in pitch darkness. Behind them the discs came to a rolling stop, silence falling with their cessation.

“Time to run, May.”

Stunned, but willing to fight for her life, May allowed Gary to lead her into the darkness.

Gill got up from her desk, stretched and winced as the computer shut down. Emptying her recycle bin and backing up were her final tasks every night. She always winced a little as the computer powered down, almost like it died a little each time, accompanied by a faint sound, a soft but piercing whine. Always made her think that the people she created, populating her stories, the ones she dumped as no good, were voicing their disapproval. Shaking her head at her fancifulness, she headed for bed.

Fire and Ice - For The Writer's Post prompt

2011-09-02T02:49:00.001-07:00

Silas watched Eve via his peripheral vision. She moved with preternatural grace, but your average Joe was unlikely to notice. He turned his attention back to the rushing streets. He'd started noticing things recently. He'd walked these streets with Eve for twenty years, never taking the same route twice. If he played back his mental photo file, he could see himself progress from eager, bright-eyed and snappily dressed new kid to gradually balding, shabbily garbed slouch, lion salient badge of office slowly tarnishing. Over the years it had slipped from pride of place on his lapel to barely visible, inside his jacket, peeking out occasionally, like a shame-faced criminal.

Lately, Silas had seen new things on these familiar, tedious streets. The people still scurried from A to B, but he hadn't realised how every one of those rushing figures had their eyes glued to the floor. Now, he looked up, felt the grey rain of late autumn sting his eyes, watched the floating advertising screens pass overhead, vibrant with colour. These people would never experience such vibrancy. They were workers, soldier ants marching from one task to the next , only stopping to sleep at their designated hours. They produced the power, the materials to create the screens which offered products they could never afford.

Eve turned her head, the movement sharp, angular. Silas' heart sank as one of the hurrying people flinched inside his drab overcoat, collar turned up against the rain.

“He is not Serene.”

Eve's voice was light, musical, but she'd never been able to lose the slight monotone of her model. Something Silas had also come to see differently. He realised his partner's vaguely emotionless voice drove an itch deep into his brain. Eve's sensors were never wrong when it came to Serenity. He looked at the man, who was trying to elbow his way through the crowds, looked at Eve, and shrugged.

“Do what you do.” he nodded and flipped open his coat to reveal his badge, worn thin with use and dim with distaste.

“Halt. All citizens freeze. Do not move unless given permission to do so.” Silas glanced down at the electronic screen in his palm, gathered the man's name from the files there, “By order of the Mechapolis, I arrest Jason Ardley for failing to use Serenity.”

The sight of thousands of people instantly halting on those teeming streets always made Silas' flesh creep. It was completely unnatural. Even as Silas spat the taste of the words from his lips, Jason took off running. Before her partner could issue a second warning, Eve did what she was trained for. Much as he admired her feline grace and the elegance of the leap which took her from his side to Jason's in a single moment, without so much as ruffling the hair of the petrified statue citizens around them, she still scared the crap out of him.

He wove through the throng, coming to stand above the young man, pinned to the floor, Eve's long fingers holding him by the throat.

“You know she can crush your neck with a slight squeeze, right?”

Silas watched the man begin to wriggle, think better of it and simply nod.

“Good. Eve, Mr Ardley will not resist. Bring him to his feet.”

Eve did as bidden, turning the man to face Silas, who held up his palm, the screen automatically activating as he curled his index finger.

“Open your eyes” he commanded, but Jason did not obey.

“If you don't open your eyes I will be forced to have my partner eliminate you, if you offer no defence.”

“I refuse. Do what you will.”

Silas was thrown at the calm demeanour shown by a man who stood pinioned by a machine and faced with imminent death.

“Just open your eyes, let me scan you for Serenity.”

Serenity was the drug given to all workers. It kept them in a state of permanent peace. Work now progressed without strikes, without incident, without calls for pay rises and days off. To Silas, workers were barely above catatonics in the med wards.

“No.”

Eve already had her finger poised, the tip of a Euth needle peeking from under the nail, but Silas raised a hand to hold her in place.

“Wait.” he turned his attention back to Jason, “Why?”

Jason finally opened his eyes, but his words caused Silas to forget his scan.

“Because death is the only freedom I will ever know.”

“You are fed, clothed, given a home. What more do you need?”

“I'm going to assume, as you were picked to team with a machine, that you are a smart man, educated. With that in mind, and looking up at those screens above, think what it would be like for you to live as I do. Think how barren, grey and pointless my life is.”

“But the Serenity...”

“I was sick. One day, bad food, the shot didn't take because I threw up. I woke up on that day. I started to see that I would never have what you have, what the rich have. I began to wonder what made them so great, so privileged. Why did I have to take Serenity and they did not? What was the difference? You know what I realised?”

His eyes suddenly locked onto Silas', and there was no stopping Eve as the Euth needle shot out and into the man's pale neck, just above the slightly grubby collar of his shirt.

“There is no difference. They just got lucky.”

He crumpled and Silas saw the life go out of his eyes. In a moment of forgetfulness, too shocked by the realisation that there were workers who could think the way he did, despite his rank and privilege, Silas bent and closed Jason's eyes, drew his coat closed over his thin chest and whispered a few words of blessing for his journey.

Eve drew up, looked down and Silas stood slowly, accepting as she began to echo his warning to Jason.

“In the name of the Mechapolis, I arrest Silas Mayning for the crime of sorrow. Present your eyes for scanning.”

Silas looked down at the still form by his feet and sighed.

“Less difference than you thought, Jason, but mine is to prevent sympathy for you. It's called Blind. I stopped taking it a week ago.”

Eve shot him.

Author's Note - This story owes more than a nod to Bladerunner for its atmosphere. It's a world which has always fascinated me, despite my being pretty useless at writing Sci-Fi stories. However, when I was looking for alternate meanings for Salient, I came across the following:

Salient – Leaping or jumping: a salient animal

Heraldry – (Of a beast) represented as leaping: a lion salient

Eve was there the instant I read those definitions, and so I took her to the world of my favourite film of all time. It's not one of my best, but I'm glad I took Eve out of my mental green room and gave her a day's work!

Bright Blessings

Mojo

Shimmerbugs - For Writer's Post prompt #9

2011-08-12T03:35:00.000-07:00

Every minute took an eternity to pass. At least it seemed so whilst Jake lay atop his blankets, hot, sweaty and impatient. The night was too muggy for sleep. His sheet stuck to him, there wasn't a cool spot to be found, and he'd turned his pillow to the chill side so many times he felt dizzy. He knew there was a single answer, the idea nascent in his overheated brain, and he also knew how much trouble he'd be in if he was caught.

Unable to wait longer, he slid from the bed, padding across the floor to the window, avoiding creaking boards with the sure-footed ease of illicit practice. The sash window resisted, but not for long. The frame was dry, shrivelled into itself as moisture was leached from the wood, sucked up by the greedy, insatiable heat. With a final, uneasy look to his bedroom door, half expecting his mother to be standing there with the 'Look' on her face, the one that spoke volumes about her disappointment, he hopped over the sill, grabbed the branch which occasionally kept him awake nights, tappity-tapping at his window for admittance, and scooted down to the ground.

The pebbled path bit into his bare feet, every stone a smooth sphere of heat. He wondered if that was how it felt if you walked across fire, like he'd seen them do on the TV. The back gate gave easily under his fingers, and that stopped him for a moment. He again looked back to the house, wondering where the lock was, why it wasn't secured as usual. Maybe one of his parents had joined him, had the same idea and gone for a walk to the beach...

The thought tore him in two. He could chance it, race down to the shore, feel the cool water lap at his legs, risk bumping into a parent, or he could return to his sweat-soaked, rumpled bed and wait it out until morning. It wasn't much of a choice. The overwhelming heat made the decision, pushing him through the gate and onto the sand beach beyond.

It was one of his favourite things about their holiday home. The single gate, all that separated him from the wonders of the beach on his doorstep. By nature a solitary child, Jake loved to spend each perfect day exploring. There were rockpools filled with weird and wonderful creatures, including the occasional crab to nip at his naked toes. The sea, ebbing and flowing in daily rhythms Jake could feel deep in his blood, gave up treasures, bottles, wood, all manner of detritus. He liked to imagine the sea's gifts having fallen from romantic, billow-sailed ships far out on unknown oceans, dream himself captain of such adventures.

The sand fascinated. Even now, deep into the night, beyond the midnight hour, it was warm under his scrunching toes. Dig but a little and it became cool. Dig further and it was damp, soon wet, leaking sea into an isolated oasis created by his hand, a childish play at God. He built structures, complex and marvellous, unaware of his innate skill, the possibilities he could one day bring to the world of architecture. Bored with them, either imperfect to his eyes, or with nothing left to add, he would sit back and watch the sea take his blueprint, fantasising some shadow of his idea would reach an undersea world and become the latest craze.

Jake was halted in his idle thoughts by a cracked voice, dry, ancient. He looked about, the moonlight enough to let him see a hunched figure sitting in the shadow of a sand dune. He was no fool, knew better than to approach. Most of the hobos were harmless enough, didn't bother anyone, but there was always the odd one, the ones who jittered and danced behind hooded eyes. Jake kept walking, beginning to describe a curve to give wide berth to the unknown man. But the voice came again, a little louder, a little clearer.

“I wouldn't, kiddo.”

Something in the voice made Jake pause, a familiarity he couldn't place.

“I'm not going in” Why he felt the need to reassure was beyond him, but too late now. He'd spoken, “Just gonna splash a bit at the edge.”

“Don't. Stop. Go back.”

Jake placed the voice. Not actually the voice, but something in the voice, some tone which resonated in his memory. An old movie his mum had made him watch as she revelled in childhood reminiscence. Willy Wonka, that's who the voice reminded him of, when he'd been telling one of the kids not to do something. Jake wasn't old enough, sophisticated enough in his language to understand the tone. All he knew was another adult was trying to stop him doing what he wanted, needed to do. He couldn't get the nuance which spoke of tired acceptance, a voice used to being ignored, saddened by it, but unable to change it.

Jake ran on, choosing not to speak further. His instinct told him the guy was no threat, but better to put some distance between them. The sea was far out, the beach seemingly endless, but Jake knew exactly where he was going. He hesitated here and there, distracted by stranded seaweed, a bleached branch which reminded him of antlers, a smooth stone, perfect for skipping, slipped into his pocket almost unnoticed, joining objects common to the pockets of all young boys. The moon sailed high and clear, no clouds to obscure her watchful face, limning Jake's face, softening his outline, making him a wild child, a moon dweller, silver-haired and ethereal.

She lit up Jake's destination. It glimmered, shone, sparkled and illuminated a deep band which ran the length of the beach. Only visible when the tide went out to play with the ocean, the shell stripe belted the beach, marking the end of soft sand and beginning of sharp stones. Jake reached it and took a surreptitious glance up and down, back and front. Certain the beach was empty, even the hobo seemingly gone to find more sociable company, Jake began his moves.

It had taken him hours of practice, time available only when the band was exposed, but he danced now, moving with the effortless ease of a ballerina, never giving away how hard he was working, muscles screaming as he forced his feet to balance, his toes to avoid. Jake danced between the tightly packed shells, unerring, determined to never crack a single iridescent creation. He spun, tip-toed, whirled, leapt, lost in his concentration.

He didn't see them, not at first. Slowly, elegantly, twining up to join him, as if lifted on currents of air, the shells danced with Jake. Each one was a double, shell butterflies in pinks, blues, yellows and deepest black. They fluttered around him, almost causing him to falter, but wonder took him. He danced on, never missing a step, watching. He christened them, eerily beautiful creatures of the night beach, Shimmerbugs. They danced faster, seeming to react to his naming, his owning of them.

The dancing went on, Jake surrounded by thousands of fluttering, clicking wings, sharp little sounds like nipping teeth. It took him long moments to realise his feet were no longer on the ground. The shimmerbugs had formed long spirals, spiralling up into the air, broad, smooth paths up which Jake danced. Further, higher, further yet.

“Let me touch the moon” he whispered and the shimmerbugs lifted him, wove his path into the night air. High above the beach, in the grip of the dance, Jake wished. He wished for wings to help him dance, to reach the beautiful face that shone above him.

The shimmerbugs closed about him. Many nipped the back of his t-shirt. More nipped, gripped the shell before them, held and slowly, delicately, wings formed at Jake's shoulders. Exultant, crying out his joy, Jake winged, whirled and wandered high, higher, highest. In the path of a moonbeam, Jake was gone. A vivid, vibrant, vivacious blue shimmerbug joined the rest, happily whirling until the moon left for other shores. The shimmerbugs floated down, gently settling back into the band as the tide returned from her night's dance. Space was made, a minute shuffling, and the blue shimmerbug slept with his new friends.

The hobo wandered down to the shore. He bent at the edge of the shell belt, picked up a smooth stone, perfect for skimming. The sort of stone which might have graced the pocket of any young boy intent on playing by the sea.

The Seven Wonders of My World - Writer's Post prompt

2011-08-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

I don't know if it is odd but, on seeing this prompt, my thoughts immediately went to people rather than things. Maybe I should start there...

Wonder One - My best friend - On the surface, we have nothing in common. It wouldn't surprise me if people looked askance at our friendship, as it seems so at odds with 'the norm'. It is a constant source of wonder to me that we share so much. We can talk for hours about everything (and quite often nothing...) We share tastes which are often unexpected, always wonderful. It is a wonder to me that he came into my life.

Wonder Two - My children. I did this? Really? You sure there isn't some mistake? These are four unique individuals and you say they were created by me? If that isn't a wonder I really don't know what else qualifies! (And yes, that photo is old and yes, they will kill me!)

Wonder Three - Music - Not perhaps for the reason you might think. The actual wonderment comes from my seemingly limitless ability to store lyrics in my head computer (otherwise known as a brain). I can almost guarantee, when a song comes on the TV or radio, I will know the words, at least some, if not all. It doesn't seem to matter how old, or new, the song is, I'll store the words and remember them forever. That is some serious storage space up there... and yet it keeps everything I stick up there and never runs out! Wonders, will they never cease? Well, not for another four anyway *wink)

Wonder Four - Words. It will never cease to be a wonder to me that I can form seemingly unconnected words into stories which people actually want to, even enjoy, reading. All my life, words have caused wonder to happen in my brain, like explosions of fireworks. They cram together and try to jump out through my fingers, whether I'm ready for them or not! They amaze me, and my ability to use them is a wonder I hope will never die.

Wonder Five - Earth - Ok, I admit, that's a bit big, but it really is the most wondrous thing. Stop for a minute, sit down, and think about our world. Think about how amazing it is, how diverse, how colourful, how terrifying and how peaceful. Think about it's flora and fauna. Mother Nature got her arse in gear and created the most wonderful place for us to live on, and it behoves us to stop once in a while and appreciate her efforts. The ole girl did good *wink*

Wonder Six - Me - Hey, I appreciate me. I'm a wonder! My body can do things I wouldn't even begin to know how to do. If my body took a vacation, left me in charge... I wouldn't have the first clue how to make my heart pump, let alone deal with making kidneys function, and yet my body does this without my having to think about it at all, ever! Now that is wondrous strange and marvellous.

Wonder Seven - You! Yes, you, sat there in your dressing gown, hair unbrushed, coffee in hand and glasses halfway down your nose. You are a wonder! A wonder because you exist on this wondrous planet, but also because you are in my life and friends are a wonder I would never be without. I'm hugging you right now... feel that? (Ok... that's a bit creepy sounding... forget I said that, but the sentiment remains *wink*)

Bright Blessings
Mojo

Instinct - GBE2 prompt

2011-08-11T04:24:00.000-07:00

The headlight, coldly brilliant, fell on her back. She knew it an illusion but heat flared there, made her back crawl, trying to shy away from her body. She gasped, bare foot catching on thorny tendrils, but didn't hesitate. Running was all that remained.

Three years he'd kept her locked in the shed. Snatched her from a suburban street, in broad daylight, people walking by with no idea. How many times she'd berated herself for leaning in when he'd opened the van door, offered a map for her to point directions on, 'Get in, sit a second, look at this'. Where had her instincts been then? Submerged under a thick veneer of civilisation. Nothing can happen to me in a street full of people. Look at his open smile, his clean clothes, shiny shoes and well kept van. No danger there.

She'd been too shocked to react fast enough when the prickle of cold steel had poked between her ribs. Too stunned to move, focussed on the thin trickle, tickle, of blood soaking into her pale pink blouse. Hadn't even flinched when he'd leaned across her, quietly closed the door and fastened her seatbelt. That single action had dulled her more. He cared about her, didn't want her to come to harm, whilst twisting the knife in her ribs. Just a little, renewing the flow, reminding her, silently, to behave, be still, be civilised about it.

Three years since he'd locked her in the shed. Three years in constant darkness. The concrete walls allowed no chink of light. The wooden roof had been sealed, literally pitch black. Every night the door would snap open, admitting him, but no light. Everything he did to her, every filthy, degrading action was committed in complete darkness. For that she had become unutterably grateful. Even now, running through the woods, she couldn't look down. She had no urge to look at her body, barely covered in the tattered remains of a pink blouse, encrusted with three years of dirt, blood and worse.

Truthfully, though she was loathe to admit it, she was struggling to see. Even starlight was harsh, her ability to process it severely impeded. Her eyeballs were already aching and it had been no more than half an hour since she'd broken free of the shed, run for her life, blindly, eyes slitted against the sudden onslaught of light in the scrapyard.

Swerving between trunks, ignoring the constant scratch and tear of woodland against skin, she ran on. At moments the bike, he, seemed close, almost on her, at others it faded back. She had a single advantage, her ability to negotiate the territory, but she would lose it the second he decided to abandon the trail bike, come after her on foot. She had to get away, as far away as her emaciated frame and wasted muscles would carry her. Find a bolt hole maybe, double back, steal his car.

She ran on, unconscious of the smile at her lips, considering her escape. Three years had been ample time to hone her instincts. She'd come to know, as soon as he walked through the door, how bad it would be. Some survival instinct had helped her mould herself to his actions, keeping him calm, satisfied. When her brain screamed in horror, disbelief at her compliance, she had shut down, knowing it was her only hope. If he grew bored with her, he'd kill her. Of that she'd had no doubt.

Deprived of light, she'd sharpened her hearing, her sense of touch. They were useful now. Deep into the woods it was dark, another advantage for her. She could no longer hear the bike, had to assume he was on foot, shotgun death creeping closer. She dodged a massive oak, felt the absence in the air to her right and hurled herself down and forward, curling into a ball. Her instinct proved right, her body hitting a long slope which dropped sharply into a narrow ravine. She grabbed for a shrub, stopped her forward motion, her heart pounding hard against the possibility that falling into the river below would have given him her location. She lay still for a few moments, exhausted body pathetically grateful for the rest.

She replayed the scene, using it to keep herself awake. As soon as he'd entered the shed she'd known he was in a bad mood. Something in the air sparked her caution. She hadn't needed the rough grab at her arm, the painful yank toward the wall and the chains there. Her arm had brushed against his right hand, felt metal, cold, cruel, hooked. It was all it took. The one tool too far. She'd shut out the sensible girl in her head and gone feral. Biting, kicking, grabbing. Her sudden change had slowed him just enough. She'd grabbed the hook, swung it, heard the meaty smack as it plunged into his thigh and then run.

She got up now, urged on by the word 'run', some deeper sense telling her he was closing in. As she started along the river's edge she heard him, far above, incoherent with rage, roaring insults and promises. The river wasn't a good place to be, too loud. She knew she needed to hear him, give her some idea of where he was, how close. Suppressing a gasp at the icy touch, she waded across the river, barely waist high, and started to climb the other side.

An hour later she knew she couldn't run any more. The ravine lay behind them. She'd struggled up a steep slope, come out on a long, narrow plateau and halted. She could hear him crashing about, no more than a few feet to her left. Backing up, desperate to prevent him finding her, she almost toppled, her feet half into empty air, body rocking. He emerged onto the plateau. Two things blazed in her mind.

Somewhere along the way he'd lost the shotgun, and she had the means to defeat him.

Bellowing, he didn't falter. He ran at her, an attempt to tackle her, bring her down. Her body tensed, her mind stilled and she watched him. So many times he'd come at her, so many times that it was imprinted in her memory, in her muscles. She knew how to react. He was coming with that slight limp in his left leg, barely noticeable... unless you'd sensed it tear at you for three years. He always went right, to his stronger side. As he closed, arms out, hands convulsively clutching, she faked right, saw him grin, felt the tips of his fingers whisper over her skin and then threw herself left.

In her mind, it happened in slow motion. She saw his eyes widen, his mouth move from stretched banana grin to perfect sphere O. She heard the long whistle of breath escaping, watched his arms pinwheeling in an attempt to slow his motion. She gazed fixedly at his feet as the toes tried to dig through his trainers, bury themselves in the ground, which crumbled slowly, inexorably. In the final seconds, time returned. He screamed his disbelief into the green silence, snatched a final time at an overhanging branch and slid over the edge.

For five hours she stood, perfectly still, listening. Every rustle of timorous beasts and twitter of night flyers brought her sharply to life, every sense ready to aid her. She expected him to reappear, shovel-nailed hands gripping the crumbled edge of the cliff, murder in his eyes. She couldn't move, couldn't leave the spot until she knew for sure. She had no strength left to run, to fight him. He had to be injured beyond ability to follow or, and her heart sang in vengeful joy at the thought, dead a hundred feet below.

Her only concession had been to turn, infinitely slowly, to face over the drop. She wanted to see him coming, if he did. Now, the sun rising slowly at her back, the scene below was gradually revealed. A long broken trail of scrub and tree led down the cliff. She exulted at the two large, sharp rocks which stuck up in the centre of the drop. Finally it was light enough for her to squint to the bottom.

He lay, strangely elegant, hands neatly at his sides, head turned to look at the small stream flowing by. A crow perched on his thigh. He made no move to shoo it, but she wasn't going to be fooled. Yes, the other leg had a broken, battered look, unnaturally bent at knee and ankle, but that was no reassurance. His other leg looked fine. Even as she pondered there was the faintest flutter in his chest, a minute flicker of his eyelids. He was alive, her gut told her so.

He sat up, so fast she almost stepped away, almost dropped the object in her hand. He was on his feet in seconds, dragging his shattered leg with a speed which showed no regard for, no recognition of pain. She almost let disbelief take her, watching him begin to clamber up the slope. Instinct, finally on her side, kicked in and she let him come. She allowed his screamed threats to flow over her, keeping her mind still, her body ready.

He actually smiled, convinced she was too terrified, too worn down to move. She let him get closer, trusting to instinct to tell her when the moment was right. She spoke no word, only looked into his eyes and let fly the branch she'd honed to a point during her long wait, hacking with a sharp stone until the point was piercing. She saw it fly, saw his final moment of complete incomprehension, and watched calmly as it hit him high, probably entering through his right eye. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as he sailed out, back, over, down.

She turned, walking into the unbearable sunlight, only quickening her pace when a dull, heavy, broken thud drifted up from below.

Back to normal *wink*

Bright Blessings

Mojo

The Rings - GBE2 prompt

2011-08-10T03:59:00.000-07:00

They hung from a tree. Two slender gold bands, unadorned, bound tightly together by a sky blue ribbon. When the heavens were summer azure, the ribbon blended, disappeared, the rings seeming to twirl endlessly, no strings to manipulate their waltz. Breezes set them to intricate sambas, gales to frantic dervish dancing, but always they came back to rest, side by side, with the merest tinkle of one against the other.

For years they hung in the tree. Park visitors commented, puzzled, theorized, but no-one touched them. Lovers smiled coyly, wondering about the future, exchanging kisses and promises beneath them. Children occasionally batted the ribbon with sticks, but with no real intent, only idleness. The rings were safe in their leafy haven.

Evening. The last rays of glorious golden sunlight, at the end of a perfect day, glinted off the lazily twisting rings. A magpie, heading home to roost, saw the tiny spark of light. His flittering brain knew only an urge to grab, pull, take. He swooped by, yanked the sky ribbon. Years had aged the delicate bindings. The blue snapped, the gold slipped, falling together through the deepening gloom. The magpie flew on, interest gone the instant his quarry disappeared into the long grass surrounding the tree.

For months they lay, side by side, rings of golden light being woven into the grasses. Sometimes a beetle scurried through. Curious foxes snuffled by, their prey running ahead, no time to look at baubles and pretties. A worm or two broke the earth, surfaced, slipped over the cold, gold metal and left. Their absence was noted, cynical comments were made about 'yobs with no respect for tradition'. For a short while, a fake pair were hung above the reality in the grass, but they didn't last. They had no weight, of time nor history. Together, the bands waited.

Autumn turned to the beginnings of chilled winter. Park-keepers began preparing the park for winter sleep. The grass was cut. The huge machine, it's rider oblivious, deep in melancholy thought, chewed toward the pair in the grass. There was no battle to stay together. A blade scythed through, clipped one band and spun it left. The other joined the rush of grass into the collecting bin. The pair were no more.

A flash of gold spun through the air, caught a gust of icy breeze and landed, rolling, on the path. It turned and rolled, spun and journeyed until the park gates were reached. A young woman waited there. Her beau would finish work soon and come to walk her home. Her thoughts were filled with him, how she loved him, how she wished he would ask her the question that hung between them like a transparent wall. She didn't care if he had no money, no great prospects. She wanted him, not his job. He made her smile, made her soul sing as no other ever had.

“Make him ask me, please.” she murmured to the shiversome wind as it raced by.

Also racing on was a quick flash of gold. She stooped, fast, snatched the gold up. She studied the ring, felt sad. For the person who'd lost it. For herself, for her stalled hopes. Tucking it into her pocket, she started along the path, walking to meet him, not wanting to wait longer to see his blue eyes, his slow smile.

He came toward her, his eyes thoughtful. His embrace was strong, a 'never let you go' surrounding of arms and love. They stood under the tree, and she held out her hand, shrugging a little as she dropped the slim ring onto his palm, explained how it had come to her.

“You should advertise it,on the park noticeboard.”

He said nothing, but his smile suddenly exploded, a chuckle bubbling over his lips. She frowned, watched him draw his hand from his jacket, unfold his fingers, reveal an identical flash of gold.

“It was in the grass cuttings when I emptied them.”

The thought came to them both, at the instant they clicked the rings together. He drew her close, whispered against her ear;

“Marry me?”

“Yes.”

When the kisses were done, the happiness somehow contained, she took both rings from his puzzled hand. Taking the red ribbon from her hair, she bound them together and tied them back in their place on the tree.

“I don't need them, or any ring. We are bound in our hearts. Let them bring others this much joy.”

Hand in hand they walked into their future.

In the darkness, two rings turned slowly, occasionally sparking heart's fire in the golden glow of lamplight.

Bright Blessings

Mojo

(Image found here)

Who I am Today - Positivity group post

2011-08-04T08:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Trust,

You and I have never been on speaking terms. In fact we have never lived in the same room, possibly never inhabited the same planet. We see things completely at odds, and have never been able to reconcile our differences.

Well, I'd like you to know something. I was wrong and you were right. For years you told me to listen to all the things I was telling other people. You told me to trust the advice my heart gave. I never did, never could.

I was good at telling everyone else what to do. I was brilliant at solving other people's problems and being there for them through their wide variety of troubles, some so close to home that maybe I was blind to the advice I was giving being an echo of what I needed to do. I was the agony aunt, the shoulder, the provider of tissues and endless advice, whilst blithely ignoring the fact that I wasn't dealing with the single biggest issue in my life.

You see, I gave up on trust early, probably not long after I learned to feed and dress myself. Other blogs have dealt with that side of my life, and no doubt will again. You wouldn't go away and I couldn't work out what I had to do to make you shut up! People were untrustworthy. If I let down my guard, I'd be hurt, repeatedly. Didn't I have the proof? Didn't I show you that proof? But no, you kept on and on, hoping to wear me down, make me take a brick or two out of the wall, peek through and let someone peek back.

Well, tentatively, clinging tightly to the walls, digging my fingers in deep in case I got yanked through and into the open, I took out a brick. If nothing else I thought it would shut you up. Of course it didn't, I should have known that. As soon as one brick was chipped away, you were whispering at me to take out more, and more, and yet more until I become the Berlin Wall in miniature, gone forever.

Hold up there, Trust. Let me tell you right now, I've taken out two bricks and that's as far as I am going right now. It's scary out there and there's someone waiting to hold my hand, walk me through trusting until I can do it. Do you have any idea how much courage it has taken for me to come this far? Or how much more will be required to take that hand? ...

Hmm, you know something else? You've forced me into acknowledging that I am stronger and braver than I ever gave myself credit for. Ok, I'm no Joan of Arc or Helen Keller, but I've got some guts buried in there. Maybe some tenacity too. Allow me to tell you what you finally managed to do for me, Trust.

You swore I had a talent for writing, if I would only trust in my ability - I've been published several times now, with my short stories.

You swore I'd reach a place where I could control the worst of my depression, although you neglected to warn me how bad it would get in the meantime - I'm still here, still fighting, and slowly, by minute degrees, I'm getting there.

You swore I'd one day find someone who would be the friend I had never allowed myself to have, one I could trust without reservation. - Fair enough, I give in. I'll hold my hands up, wave the white flag and tell you what you want to hear. You were right, I was wrong and, for once in my life, I don't mind admitting it.

Now don't you go getting all smug because it isn't that simple. Remember, only two bricks have gone and there is an awful lot of time going to pass before you can swing out the wrecking ball, but yes, one day it'll happen just like it happened in Berlin. I guess you finally taught me how to trust myself, but do me a favour.... For the tough days, don't go too far away. Be there to come back and whisper reassurance to me when I take that hand, break down that wall and walk into that 'brave new world' where trust no longer has a capital letter.

Thank you
Gill

(Image found here)

Memories - Positivity group prompt

2011-08-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

This prompt really got me to thinking. Lately, when I've been talking about taking my grandson to see and do various things, people have often said something on the lines of; 'Well that's nice, but he won't remember it.'

My response verges on complete befuddlement. What has that got to do with anything? I'm not without brain cells. I do realise that he is far too young (at 13 months) to remember a lot of what we are doing with him now. Most of those memories will be saved in the form of photographs, of which there are already hundreds! (Can you tell he's our first grandchild? *wink*)

What we are doing is creating an environment in which he can learn, experience and begin to understand the world in which he will eventually create thousands on thousands of memories. The pictures scattered through this blog indicate just a few of the experiences he is having.

He loves food. From early in his life he has been offered every kind of food (age suited, of course). Like everyone else, he has some things he is less fond of, and we avoid nuts because his dad is allergic to almonds, but everything else is fair game. Although he currently refuses to sit still and eat, preferring the 'Hit and Run' method of dining, he will try pretty much anything you offer. I love to cook and feed people. My little guy is already experiencing what it is like to be a part of a family of foodies, and hopefully the pictures of, and time at, his first birthday party (where he fell in love with orange jelly boats), will be the beginning of future happy food memories.

If you look at the pictures in my albums you will see a child who is laughing, eating, touching, watching, talking, running, climbing, at home, in the park, in the garden, by the sea. No, he won't remember the actual details of these events, but he'll remember how it feels to laugh, to run, to feel wet sand under your toes, gooey jelly in your mouth and grass in your hands.

But there is one important point to be made here. These photos contain my memories of him. What they will do, when he is old enough to understand, is build on his memories and remind him of one over-riding factor;

He will always remember that he is loved, completely, forever.

Bright Blessings
Mojo

Wordless Wednesday

2011-08-02T15:58:00.000-07:00

Mellow Yellow <|:o))

Butterfly - Positivity group prompt

2011-08-02T14:02:00.000-07:00

Amy stood back, watching the butterfly land on her lavender -scented washing.

“I envy you.”

Lately she'd found herself talking to random things. Anything to get the words out of her head. Up there, confined, they ran around each other, cut across, in, round and under until no single thought made sense. Set free, spoken to a passing cat, bird or butterfly, they were no longer part of the crazy place her head had become.

The butterfly flurried up in a whisper of blue, hovered around her hand, then disappeared into the brambles tangling the back hedge. She envied its freedom, its ability to just take off and be where it wanted to be. Grabbing up her laundry basket, casting a longing glance in the direction of the cool river running behind the low hedge, she headed inside to begin lunch.

The boys arrived, ate and disappeared. Jon fled to the cricket pitch, still chewing the last of his apple pie. Paul was equally fast, the pub his destination. Their garbled, food-muffled descriptions of college and university went by in a muddled moment. She didn't feel part of their lives any more. They came home with dirty socks, dirty jokes. They appeared at the table to eat and were gone. She knew they had lives to lead, but couldn't they spare just a little time, slow down, sit down, open up? As darkness fell, she stared at the message on her phone; 'Staying at Jake's. C U 2morrow. Jon & Paul.

“Bed it is then”

Amy sighed deeply and trundled upstairs to her empty room.

Hours later, unable to sleep, too aware of the empty space beside her in the bed, Amy stuffed her feet into the silly rabbit slippers Jon had bought as a joke birthday present, wrapped herself in her well-worn, much loved housecoat, resplendent with twee bunnies and capering mice, and shuffled down to the kitchen. The house was too empty. When Gary had announced he wanted to separate, she'd thought it would be for a few months at most, time for him to get over his mid-life crisis and return to her. Just over a year, two foreign holidays, one new car and half a dozen ditzy blondes later, Amy had finally realised it wasn't going to happen.

She clutched a cup of juice, occasionally rolling it across her forehead and hot cheeks. The garden was as still as the house, but not silent. Through the open window she could hear the gentle rustle of creatures, night denizens going about their business. An owl whispered by, a soft shadow. Further on she could hear the stream running. Hot, uncomfortable, sticky, uneasy in her skin, Amy experienced a sudden yen to run down the garden and leap into the stream.

“Do it.”

Her voice sounded too loud, too eager in the silence of the house, as if the very bricks resented her sudden outburst. In a fit of childish rebellion, she poked her tongue out at the wall, threw open the back door and ran into the night.

She left her slippers on the patio, shivered as her toes curled into the slightly damp, cold grass and ran to the hedge. She paused briefly, searching for the gate Gary had installed years ago. The kids had loved it, their very own entrance to a private water world. She couldn't remember the last time they'd been in the garden let alone near the stream. Her eyes were adjusting to the gloom, locating the gate. It was low enough to vault over, her urge bringing no real danger. She landed neatly on the other side.

“Not so bad for an old girl.” she chuckled.

Seconds later she followed yet another mad whim, stripping out of her clothes and wading into the cool, clear stream without pause. She found the round, smooth rock the boys had once used to fish from, plonking herself down and dangling feet and fingers in the slow running water. For the first time in months she felt unburdened, her mind calm, her body at ease. The water was too delicious to resist. Slipping off the rock, she sank into the water, causing barely a ripple, allowing herself to flow back and forth with the wind as it ruffled the surface about her.

With her ears underwater, she really stood no chance of hearing him. The first either of them knew of another soul was when he stood on her hair and she jerked up, water cascading down her naked body. As he had apparently had the same thought, standing naked, waist deep in water, but still clutching his groin in shocked dismay, she did the unexpected. Instead of the desperate attempts to cover up, even run for the shore, Amy laughed. It started out as a giggle which burbled over her lips, parted them and worked its way up the scale until she was crying, her eyes streaming, her arms clutched about her ribs which ached with a fierceness she's begun to think she'd never experience again. Unable to withstand her abandon, the man joined her, their laughter spiralling into the silence of the night, offending every animal and bird for miles around.

Gasping for breath, unable to straighten for the weakness around knees and ribs, Amy stuck out her hand in the stranger's general direction, felt their palms connect and shook.

“Amy.” she managed.

“Carl.” he wheezed.

“Nice night.”

For some reason this cracked them both up again. Amy collapsed onto the bank, Carl landing a couple of feet distant. They sat, trying to recover some sense of decorum, but every time their eyes met, the laughter threatened to bubble up again. Finally Amy gave up. She waved her arm back, indicating the light in her kitchen.

“Fancy a coffee?”

A part of her brain was screaming at her lunacy, but tonight she was a butterfly, free to flit where she would.

“Sure. And in case you are wondering, I live next door. Moved in yesterday. And I'm not a serial killer.”

“Well that's ok then” Amy answered primly and they were off again, spluttering giggles and staggering up to the house.

As they passed over the threshold, Amy wondered if this might be one night when she didn't have too much room in her bed. Her cheeks flushed, Carl discreetly pretending not to notice, but his hand lingered just a little too long as she handed him his mug. Amy stretched her wings and flew.

(Image found here)

Author's note - A lot of things inspired this story, but above all was the song, Love is Like a Butterfly. I've included the Dolly Parton version below, but I remember it being used as the theme tune to a BBC show called 'Butteflies' which was about a woman called Ria who was working her way through a mid-life crisis. I wanted something of that gentle humour to come through in Amy's story, dedicated to all of we women who are of a certain age.

Bright Blessings

Mojo

Guilt and fairies - Mcbloggery prompt

2011-08-02T08:30:00.000-07:00

It follows me everywhere. It creeps along behind me like some malevolent mouse, ready to whiz up my trouser leg and clamp its teeth into my butt. Because, and let's be honest here, when guilt hits it goes for the butt. Don't tell me you haven't wriggled in your jeans during that butt-clenching moment of guilty realisation. Forget heart and mind, guilt attacks the behind!

I doubt there's a day goes by when I don't feel that nibble of guilt. Let's take rest as an example. Despite the fact that I've been up since the screech of cock-call, made bread and cake, prepared ingredients for the evening meal, completed three loads of laundry and hung them on the line, been shopping, written two short stories and walked for an hour, all by mid-day... I feel guilty when I lie down and fall asleep, the deliciousness that is the afternoon siesta.

Apparently, somewhere in my brain, the guilt fairy sat up, took notice and sent a memo. It read:

How dare you sleep! Think about all the things you haven't done. You could have watched mindless TV, eaten your way through enough chocolate to feed a small village and drunk enough coffee to re-float the Titanic in your attempts to fill that empty hour, but no. Instead you slept! Outrageous behaviour. Immediately work until you drop, become irritable enough that sparks fly off your hair if anyone dares talk to you, and end the day in a bad mood, tired and hating yourself. Love and hugs, The Guilt Fairy.

Another doozy is family. I've spent 20+ years bringing up my kids, keeping house and putting my life, my very self, on hold. Now, with two living with their gentlemen, the other two at home, but more than capable of fending for themselves, why do I feel guilt at the least thing? Why do I still feel I have to be here, have an evening meal prepared, run round after them as if they are still ten years old? Is there really anything wrong with my not having dinner on the table by 6pm, as it's always been? Oh wait.... another memo from 'Her'.

Do you really think there is no harm in that? Tut, tut, foolish one, you do not deserve the title mother! You stand on the precipice. Today, no dinner waiting, tomorrow too weak to avoid the oncoming truck. Today no laundry washed and placed in their rooms (where it will instantly descend to the floor and require re-washing within two days), tomorrow attacked by Necrotizing Fasciitis. Today, not there to listen to their problems (because you dared to leave the house for ten minutes), tomorrow, shooting up heroin and drinking methylated spirits in the gutter. You are about to kill your children! Immediately see to all of the above and do not leave the house ever again, just in case. Love you, The Guilt Fairy.

Honestly, it isn't really that bad... (twitch), but sometimes it does feel that I can't allow myself to do anything. Yesterday was a spiritual festival for me, Lammas. I walk my own path, and although my way may not be the way of others, most of us will have given some thought to upholding important oaths in our lives. I'm making one right now.

I swear, by the Lady and Lord, guardians of my strength and resolve, that I'm gonna buy a mousetrap, bait it with guilt-laden Swiss cheese and attach it to the bottom of my trousers! No more guilt about stupid things which no-one else in the house gives a flying fairy about!

...and if so much as one of you mentions that it'll just run up the other leg, there will be trouble... and possibly guilt as I bury your body.

Bright Blessings

Mojo

Rivers of Time - FWB prompt

2011-08-02T05:18:00.000-07:00

Dena sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling in empty air above the sucking mud below. That would disappear soon enough; the tide was encroaching with every wave. She stared up, the sky beginning to break clear of morning haze, the promise of another clear blue day cresting the departing clouds. This was the best time, in her opinion. Too early for the hordes of screaming toddlers, harassed parents and water-crazed dogs. Stillness held dominion, and that suited her needs.

It was always too loud to think at home. Paul with his drum practice and dreams of stardom. Mum with her ever present clacking on the computer as she caught up with people she used to hate at school, and then slagged them off over the dinner table. And Dad, poor ole Dad, retired, bored, playing ancient music and remembering when he had hair. Too much noise, not even peace in her room. These early morning walks to the dock gave her that. Time to let all the voices settle, quit their bickering and attention seeking, and let the important thoughts float to the top.

Mind calm, she let her gaze wander across the vast expanse of water, wondering what it had looked like back in the day. Back when huge ships had sailed up the wide, deep river, delivering their cargoes, taking back coal and wood. She could hear the distant echoes haunting her imagination. The cry of sailors, the heft and thud of crates, the tramp of feet and whinny of horses towing barges toward town. It was all there, embedded in the rocks of the pier, in the shattered timbers piercing the water, reaching for the sky they once sailed beneath.

A peripheral movement caught her attention, juxtaposed with a sudden gust of wind which draped hair across her eyes.

“Odd.” she muttered, tucking locks behind her ears.

She looked again, focussing now, determined to disprove her eyes. But no, there it was. The wind blew stronger across the water, playing with the waves, and she realised it was those which had caused her brain to think the world was a little of kilter.

The wind created paths in the water, miniature miracles, parting of the waves bible style. Furthest from her, kissing the far bank, a water path ran from east to west, waves racing towards the bridge, empty of cars, for now. On her side, under her feet, she noted it was heading west to east in another path, waves bolting for the freedom of the sea. Looking to the centre of the river, half expecting to see waves running vertically, so strange did it seem, she saw a path which lay completely still. Glassy, mirror smooth and with edges clinically straight, the path was perfect, untouched by the strange goings-on around it.

Knowing it was an idiotic thing to do, but intrigued beyond bearing by the odd waves and paths, she studied the closest path. It ran only a couple of feet from the edge of the dock where steps led down to the water. Idly wondering how many ancient mariners had climbed the steps before her, boarding for foreign lands, or aching to be home, she stood at the head of the steps, contemplating.

“Am I this curious?” she asked herself, and smiled, taking the first step down.

Thankful for the boots she'd worn after the night's rain, she stepped into the rivulets teasing the dock. The water washed lazily back and forth, barely covering her feet, but she knew the river was treacherous, replete with sudden eddies, whirls and undertows. Gingerly, she moved toward the edge of the water path, sure she would find a sandbar beneath her questing feet. Her dad always said there was usually a very simple explanation for the unexplained, waiting to be discovered. The water brushing her ankles, she walked onto the path.

The waves continued to scramble seaward, but she stood firmly in place, feeling solid ground under her feet. Uncertain, she bent, plunging her hand into the freezing water, expecting to feel sand. What she encountered was smooth, solid, like a glass path under the water, invisible, the trick of a magician. As she uncurled, confused, she felt the wind pick up. It whirled around her, caused the water to swirl up until she was surrounded by it, couldn't see out of its dervish spinning. She felt a tugging, first against her body and then inside her head. She gasped at the unwanted pain, the suction which followed and staggered as she was suddenly clear of the water, dumped on an unevenly cobbled road.

She tried to catch her balance, in mind and body, looked up and screamed. A phalanx of uniformed men were marching straight at her. The leading soldiers looked as shocked as she felt. She could almost see their thoughts in their faces. At only a yard away there was no doubt they were about to trample straight over her. There was no room to turn, no time to stop the momentum of disciplined feet. One started to speak, another looked at the river running to their left, thinking perhaps to push her away, and then a hand grabbed the back of her jumper.

She was yanked backwards, experienced the pain and suction again and landed on her rear in a cave. A young man stood before her, his smile wry. She could hear water, instinctively turned to it.

“There's a river at the cave mouth. I wouldn't advise walking a path right now.”

“Who are you. Where am I?”

Dena struggled to her feet, disorientated.

“You are barely escaped from being stomped by the Roman army. I'm Mike” He offered his hand to steady her, proffered a beaker, “Drink this. It helps.”

Dena downed the offered drink and choked. Mike clapped her on the back and laughed.

“Wow, a little at a time. Rum's a bit strong in pints!”

“Rum!” Dena stared in disbelief, “What is this? Are you crazy?”

“Yeah, I felt like that at first. I promise you can trust me though. Take my hand.”

Reluctantly, but with little alternative, Dena took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the river at the cave entrance.

“See the paths?”

The water flowed wide and strong, rippled with water paths travelling in every conceivable direction. She nodded.

“Hold tight and don't let go.”

He took them onto a path. The same sensations, but with less force. They landed on a beach. A young man toiled back and forth, shouting words into the wind.

“Byron” Mike explained, "And this is Greece, about 1823, give or take a month. The nasty bits of travelling fade the more you do it.”

“Byron, really?” Dena stared at the infamous poet, watching his curls bounce in time with his agitated, staccato bursts of words, hurled at the sky.

“Yep. Easier way to prove it.”

Another skip, another path. This time they set down in a field. A stream burbled happily along, watering long spires of almost ripe corn. Dena knew where they were instantly. Knew a miniature Dena, aged six, would come hurtling out of the corn, chased by 'monsters', Mum and Dad doing their best 'Where the Wild Things Are' impressions. As the scene played out, she found it hard to watch herself, feeling the dislocation return. Mike seemed to know, grabbing her hand and heading for the stream.

“Time to go back.”

Seconds later they were back, seated on a pile of cushions, eating hunks of bread and drinking water from a spring in the rear of the cave. Mike grinned round his crumbs.

“I'm guessing you want some explanations?”

Dena nodded, wasting no effort on words, suddenly ravenous.

Mike leaned back, his eyes watching the passing water.

“I don't know how or why. Let's get that straight. All I know is not everyone can do it. On certain days, the wind blows just so and, those who can, see the water paths.”

“What are they?”

“Not sure. They allow you to go anywhere in time. Literally anywhere. If you can imagine it, the paths will take you there.”

“Why?”

“You're asking the wrong person. Rumour has it, the only person who knows is The Rambler. He's supposed to control a single river with a single path capable of taking him to the moment time began. It's called Eternity Esplanade.”

“Really?” Dena's scepticism was clear, “Sounds like an urban legend.”

“Maybe, maybe” Mike's voice became dreamy, distant, “But I've been here ten years now, and the stories about him are consistent. I'm looking for Melody. She's supposed to have met him, but she travels constantly. One day.”

“Ten years? Do you mean you haven't been home in ten years? Not once?”

“Yep.”

“Your family...?”

“I check on them every now and then. They think I drowned. They were sad for a while, but they've started laughing again. It's good to see.”

“Don't you miss them?”

“Some, at first, but I have all of time to explore. I don't want to go back.”

Dena put that thought aside for future consideration, already wondering if the allure of time would drown the pull of home and family.

“How does it work?”

“Bit difficult at first. I ended up in the middle of a street in Beijing’s rush hour once. Worst one was falling out of the sky.”

“What! I thought it worked through water.”

“It does. Trouble is I decided to see if rain works. It does, if it's a real heavy storm... but you fall down with the rain. Wouldn't be here if I hadn't got blown sideways and managed to grab the edge of a workman's cradle.”

“You may not be the best advert for time travelling, Mike.”

“Nah, I don't do anything that stupid now.”

“So, back to how it works?”

“You can go anywhere in time, as long as there is running water nearby. Think of the time you want to see as you step onto a path and off you go.”

“It can't be that easy.”

“Just remember two things. First, be very, very, incredibly, minutely aware of where you want to go. If you stumble or think fuzzy, you could end up anywhere. As your encounter with Caesar's minions proved. Second, Don't stay in one place too long. The longer your visit, the more chance you have of changing something irrevocably. Time can cope with the odd anomaly, but don't push your luck. Two days is the longest I've stayed anywhere. Stick to that and you should be fine.”

“No killing my grandad then?”

Mike grinned and rose, holding out his hand.

“Ready to go again?”

“Sort of scared...”

“I'll hang with you the first few times.”

On the verge of time, feeling it lap at her feet, Dena took her first step into eternity.

Author's notes - For those of you with an interest in the workings of my mind, two things inspired and are referenced in this tale. The first is common to many writers. I carry a notebook almost everywhere. It is the most disorganised thing you have ever seen, full of random thoughts, shopping lists, websites, phone numbers and random story ideas. Near the front of the current book is a page of thoughts including one about the weird water patterns I saw on a local river. Hence the water paths. The other refers to the description of glass paths, a magician's trick. That is down to this guy and this video -

Bright blessings

Mojo

Strawberry Fields Forever - BFF prompt

2011-07-31T16:07:00.000-07:00

Clara hiked her pack more securely in place and looked at the winding road ahead. It wound up and on and round and out of sight, ever closer to the clouds crowning the mountain. Walking her way around Europe had seemed like a great way to pass her gap year. Now, with aching feet, blisters, stiffening joints and a head pounding in time to every forward motion, all she wanted was a bed for the night and a train station. Enough was enough. Time to go home.

An hour later, she turned a corner and saw a hole in the clouds ringing the mountain. Beyond lay lush green fields bathed in sunshine. For a moment she stood, frozen. Faint memories of a film flitted through her mind. What was it? The light shifted, sent fleeting shadows and then beamed once more, the edges of the clouds turning a delicate blush of golden-pink. Shangri-La! That was it. Some fabled village where everything was perfect, always. Getting her feet moving up the now straight path, Clara knew her nirvana would contain nothing more complicated than a bed and instructions to the nearest bus or train to the closest metropolis.

Clearing the cloud layer and treading the last stretch to the village walls, Clara noticed one thing above all others. The low wall surrounding the village, possibly to keep the sheep out, was a soft strawberry-pink. The stones looked almost soft, like pieces of rock candy melting in the sun. She couldn't resist touching as she passed within their confines... just in case. Maybe she'd discovered some candy village like a strange version of Hansel and Gretel.

Everywhere she looked strawberry-pink walls rose to surround her. At first it seemed quaint, cosy, welcoming, but her first encounter with the local church took some of the shine off. Again, the warm colour of the walls drew her attention, but the church was unpleasant, for all its gaudy stone. It rose high, towering, square, blocky, more a fortress than a welcoming place of worship. The fact that gravestones were carved from the same stone, that a bench under a yew in the graveyard gave off the same rosy tones and a rose-pink path led up to the entrance all colluded to give a creepy quality which made her shiver.

Walking into the town square, contained within rose-red walls, Clara saw a sign hanging jauntily in the lace-curtained windows of a single storey house. 'Vacancy'. Praying it wasn't just bad translation and actually meant the people were on vacation, she strode up to the door, knocked and hoped.

The door was opened by the type of woman who tends fields all day, feeds 40 farm hands in one sitting and leaps tall haystacks with a single bound. Tall, muscular and with hair tied resolutely under, of course, a strawberry-pink headscarf. However, her manner was warm as she swept Clara inside, assured her she would have no problem finding her a place to sleep, and then asked to be excused.

“I have a couple of tourists in. I'm telling them the legend.”

Despite her exhaustion, Clara's ears pricked up. She was a sucker for local tales and folk stories. Her request to tag along was readily accepted and she followed the large woman up a boxed-in staircase and onto a narrow landing where two young people stood waiting. It was more than a squeeze to get everyone into the tiny bedroom at the end of the landing, but Frau Dietrich launched into the legend of Seline, the gypsy girl and Clara soon forgot her woes, including the warm breath of the male tourist who stood unnecessarily close.

It was a fairly standard story as these things went. A group of gypsies had passed through the town. They'd stayed long enough to help with the harvest. Also long enough for one of the local lads to have his way with a pretty gypsy lass. Angry at such dishonour, the gypsy king had asked for recompense. No daughter of his would wed a common labourer, so better hand over the best stallion in the village. Unsurprisingly, the villagers took exception to this idea and ran the caravans out of town, with much brandishing of fire and hurling of stones and insults. Pausing just beyond range of the missiles, the gypsy king had risen from his seat on the tail vardo and cursed the village. According to legend he swore that, unless a girl was sacrificed for the virginity of his daughter, the place would never be able to grow food and every first born child would die of starvation.

The villagers jeered and calmly went back to the business of planting and rearing strawberries, which had been their tradition for hundreds of years. Within a month the plants were dead in the fields and the graveyard contained the stark count of dead firstborns, steadily rising. A decision was taken, in secret, by the elders of the village. They chose an orphan girl, smuggled her to a house on the outskirts of the village, but could not decide how to accomplish her sacrifice. Eventually, an old woman, mother to one of the women who had lost their firstborn child, grabbed the girl by the arm, dragged her kicking and screaming to the attic, shoved her inside and locked the door.

“Let her starve.” was her only comment.

The folk of the village went about their lives as before, everyone careful to ignore the screams and pleas from the attic window, the frantic battering of fists against the glass. After a few days the screams became weak, barely audible. Soon they were no more. The fields bloomed in vibrant health and everyone thought it was over. What they hadn't understood was the terrible power of the gypsy's curse. They soon learned that a girl had to be sacrificed every year if they were to eat, harvest and bring forth viable children.

Frau Dietrich hushed, let them absorb the tale and then raised her eyes to a pale brown square in the ceiling. Continuing in whispers she explained that a coffin stood on the attic boards and none in the village had the bravery to remove it lest the gypsy curse come back.

“It is said to contain the bones of the last girl they ever sacrificed.” she intoned and Clara shivered. Her hostess chuckled.

“Have no fear. We don't sacrifice village girls any more. Come, let me get you a meal and then show you to your room.”

The tourists were fed and set on their way. Clara was almost asleep as she trailed back up the stairs, the meal had been heavy and plentiful, climbed the pull-down ladder Frau Dietrich set in place and headed up into the guest room. Asleep on her feet, she fell into the boxbed and slept.

She awoke refreshed, sat up and banged her head on the sloping ceiling. Realising she was in the roof space made her a little uneasy, recalling Frau Deitrich's tale. She slid out of the bed, crossed to the window and watched the sun warm the strawberry-pink walls with morning light. It took her a moment to locate the the square of pale brown which indicated the trapdoor, and was a little concerned when she could find no pull-ring, no mechanism to open it. She rapped on it, calling to her hostess, but received no answer. She crossed back to the window, banged on the glass and called to an old woman passing in the rosy street below. The woman did not look up.

Clara turned back to the room, hoping she had missed some lock, a switch, anything with which to open the trapdoor. What she saw was her sleeping place, her comfortable boxbed in which she had slept for twelve hours, as if drugged. Her brain tried to shy away from what faced her, but she couldn't deny the coffin which sat squarely in the centre of the room, replete with comfy pillows and blankets. 'Accept your fate' it murmured. Clara began to scream in earnest.

Outside the villagers went about the business of growing their crop. If Clara had been sane enough to care, she might have looked out from her high vantage point, across those warm red walls to the fields beyond... strawberry fields forever.

The Power of Words - Writer's Post prompt #7

2011-07-28T09:06:00.000-07:00

What an awesome prompt! Bearing in mind they are an unavoidable part of our lives, words are possibly the most powerful single force we ever deal with - unless you happen to explode nuclear bombs for a living!

So what came to mind when I saw this prompt? Actually, a smile came to my lips first. It's a running joke between my friend and I... If he says 'Think of a word' I instantly think 'Sausages'! Why is anybody's guess, but it's probably Freudian *chuckle* So the power of his prompt brings out a response and that is really what words are about. What is said, read or written causes a response in us, very often on an emotional level rather than intellectual. Let's face it, there's nothing intellectual about sausages!

Let's take music as a force to carry words. I write. That's what I do, but I couldn't begin to know how to put together the words for a song. Someone once told me it's like writing poetry... Well I'm not good at that either! What I do know is that there are songwriters out there who move me on a purely emotional level,and yet more who expand my intellectual capacity, simply by putting pen to paper and setting words to music. Yes, the music is important - The suicide song wouldn't be anywhere near as depressing if it was set to a polka beat! - but the words are what capture our hearts and our imaginations. It is the words that speak to our minds and souls, recalling memories and emotions with each verse, reinforcing with every chorus repetition. Allow me to share two such examples, personal to me.

The chorus to this song (from the solo album by Killers Lead singer, Brandon Flowers) speaks volumes to a relationship situation in my life. It reminds me no matter how tough I think I've got it, the other half of this situation has it just as tough. We do make mistakes that cause pain to others, but that is how we grow, how we learn, how we shake down together and learn how to cope with another person and their life.

On another level completely I offer a beautiful Sondheim song from the stage show, Into The Woods. This is clever. This is beautiful. This has a point to make and a truth to share if people will listen. This kind of song, clever as well as beautiful appeals on a whole different level, to the mind more than the emotions. Enjoy for it is one of the best.

Moving on, words affect us in so many ways. I've read books filled with words which breezed across my mind and took no root. I've read books which have been filled to the brim with words which terrify (Stephen King- It), amuse (Terry Pratchett - Discworld series), bring tears (Anne Rice - Cry to Heaven) and change my world view (Jung Chang - Wild Swans) and have taken me through every emotion in between, often staying with me my entire life. Despite my complete and utter inability to write poetry worth a darn, I appreciate the form. I do have a favourite poet. His name was Arthur Rimbaud and 'Asleep in the Valley' was the first piece I ever read by him. It still startles me, makes me tearful, no matter how many times I've read it. I'm sharing it with you, just click the link - Rimbaud poem.

Lastly, I want to think about the way we use words. I've said it before and I'll say it again... Whoever wrote the little idiocy which reads 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me' clearly led a very sheltered and idyllic life! I have spent the majority of my adult life feeling useless, worthless, ugly and pointless simply because my mother told me I was, constantly. I can't remember falling over and getting the scar on my middle finger, but I can remember every time she told me those things. I can't remember the pain of falling, but I can remember the pain of being told I was a failure.

This harks back to the song above; Children will listen. Not only will they listen, they will remember. Tell your child they are clever, pretty, useful, wanted, needed, loved unendingly and that child will grow up believing they are all those things. Use words carefully for they have the power to wound as easily as support.

In parting, I'm going to leave you with my all time favourite song master and a gorgeous version of his song, Compassion. Listen to the words... he's very good with them.

Bright Blessings
Mojo

Turning points - Writer's Post prompt #5

2011-07-28T03:59:00.000-07:00

I admit, when I saw this prompt, my immediate reaction was to write a fiction piece... and I may still do that..., but then I thought it might be interesting to see what images came to mind when I thought about turning points in my real life. So here we go...

I've mentioned (to the point where people become narcoleptic) how important The Mists of Avalon was, is and continues to be in my life. The book came to me when I was at a crossroads. I was trying to understand what my faith was, where my steps should head on the belief path. Reading this book became the biggest turning point in my spiritual life. I have read it more times than I remember, worn out multiple copies and learned so much from where the character of Morgaine has led me. One day, in some other place and time, I would like to hug Marion Zimmer Bradley and tell her just how much her book has meant to my life.

Another image which springs to mind is this. That's the lethal injection chamber at San Quentin Prison. I have no desire to start a debate about the rights and wrongs of state sanctioned murder, (but I guess from that comment alone you will understand which side of the fence I come down on!), but this has been a turning point which was a long time comin'. Today I write regularly to prisoners on Death Rows across America. I count these guys as friends, albeit distant ones. Yes, they are all murderers, a couple of them multiple, but they are still human beings with the same emotions, needs and desire for friendship and a little compassion that we all have. I'm proud to say that I finally took the plunge and reached out to these guys after years of being undecided, a little scared, uncertain. It is one of the best moves I ever made because these guys really appreciate the friendship penpals offer them.

This one is a little strange, perhaps, but it sums up another turning point in my life which was definitely the least expected. I've reached that time in my life where a major body shift is heading my way. Peri-menopause, I think they call it. Anyway, I wasn't prepared for any of this, never having had a mother figure who could give me guidance. What I needed was a friend, someone to make me feel like me again, and not this baggy, saggy, brain-dead stranger in the mirror.
My friend came along in a form I couldn't have predicted in a million years. Young, smart and willing to take a chance on our unusual friendship. Watching anime, talking into the wee small hours and watching game after game of this kinda sums up this particular turning point for me. Half the time I didn't have a bloody clue what was going down on the screen, but it was fun to watch and fun to have him talking, listening, explaining and treating me like the human being I was in danger of forgetting how to be.

I think there is one more, perhaps two, but this one is important. That's a shot of my school, a place of pure boredom for most of my teen years. I know it sounds boastful, and I swear it's not, but the group I hung out with were all seriously clever and way beyond the lessons being given. We basically cut school and learned more together or at the library because we didn't then have to deal with the policy of working to the pace of the slowest learner in the class.
However, there was one class I never cut, English with Mr Roy Agoumbar. That man is solely responsible for my perseverance with writing. I was constantly told it was a waste of time and that I'd never make a career, or any money, out of it. Roy read my work, critiqued me without mercy or reference to my tender age and made me determined to go on. He is another person I hope to see when the world turns and tell him he was right to make me go on. This blog wouldn't exist if he hadn't been in my life.

Lastly, another teacher. I have always loved books, reading, but my primary school teacher, Mr Lee, encouraged me to read beyond my age range. Thus was I introduced to Tolkien, but the one I really associate with Mr Lee was Call of the Wild. Not only did it appeal to my inner wolf, but it was, to me at aged 10, a seriously adult book which the librarian didn't think I should read. Of course that only made the allure greater! If it hadn't been for Mr Lee, my mousey little pre-teen self would have taken a lot longer to pluck up the courage to read from the adult section and been denied the gems I found there for a few years.

So thank you to everyone and thing that has touched my life and guided my steps at these particular turning points. I do wonder where I'd have been without you. And here's to the adventures yet to come as my feet wander up to the next fork in the road...

Bright Blessings
Mojo

Sweet memory and song - Writer's Post prompt

2011-07-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

My kids are pretty much all into anime, or have been over the years. My eldest daughter is the Sailor Moon fan. My second daughter has the widest ranging selection of anime loves, some of which I share, such as Blood+. My third daughter I remember being a fan of Power Puff Girls, although she is really the Harry Potter fanatic. My son, (at one time the world's biggest Spongebob Squarepants fan!) loved One Piece.

To this day I have no real idea what the show was about, or what it's epic fascination was, but surely the theme tune had something to do with it. Bold, brassy and bouncy, it had all the right moves to capture the minds of small boys.

Why have I chosen this annoying piece of anime history for my sweet memory? Because of car trips. I think the particular occasion which springs to mind was down to returning from a birthday trip, possibly a restaurant. What I do recall is a couple of helium balloons and some bored kids in the back of the spacewagon!

I'm pretty sure one of the girls still has the event on their phone. Two or three of the kids, after mouthfuls of balloon helium, started singing theme tunes from anime and kids shows. You haven't lived until you've been in a car full of slightly hysterical, squeaking children singing bad theme tunes. It's making me smile just thinking about it.

Happy days indeed *grin*

My favourite things - GBE2 prompt

2011-07-27T06:45:00.000-07:00

Warning - This blog post carries an 'Adult' warning. It's not heavy, but just so you know *wink*

I'm lying here, next to you, nowhere else I'd rather be. I don't want you to wake. Please, just lay there, sleeping. Let me feel the tickle of your hair against my shoulder, watch it flow across the pillow, a cascade of waves.

Stay sleeping, beautiful man. Let me feel the warmth flowing back and forth between our bodies. The points of heat when hip, thigh, arm are close, but do not touch. My senses still reel. I want to hold you, to be held, but more than that I want to experience you again.

Sleep on, and dream. Yes, turn your head and let sleepy murmurs whisper over my naked skin. I'll smother the giggles bubbling through my body, absorb your dreaming inanities with pleasure, only do not wake. Let me remember, drowsing here beside you on rumpled sheets, wet with us.

Let me recall the look in your eyes at the moment when we fell here. That awkward second when knees and elbows, twined, tangled, try to rearrange themselves. I want to remember your smile, your laughter. That is music played for my soul. Your giggles make my heart fly.

I remember you. I remember how your arm slipped under me, how mine snaked across your chest. Memories assail my senses, prickly skin where you shave, soft down on arms, legs, chest. I know exactly how every part of you feels to my fingers, my palms, my tongue.

I can taste you now, as you stir, shift closer, your breath heavy against my cheek. Hot as the air around us on this summer evening. Your taste is unique, light, musky, a delicious lack of perfumes and products. Just you, your skin, your scent, your taste. I breath you in, the first kisses, tastes, scents, the beginning of our union.

I adore your touch, playful or sensual. So light my skin screams under delicious torture. So firm I cannot breathe for wanting you. Let me curl into you, lay over you, under you. Let me experience you from everywhere. Let no inch of us be apart. Mould to me, let me sink into you.

Laughter. It is us. The heat, the sweat, the sounds our bodies make against each other. With another it might break the mood. Not with you. Your laughter, light and frivolous, deep and sensuous, they are triggers for my desires. If we did not laugh when we are this close, this melded, we would not be us.

I watch your eyes darken, feel the strength of you, your need. I know this play will not last now. There is urgency in the meeting of our lips, pressure as stomachs, hips, thighs come together and will not be parted. We are us, we have our ways. We settle together, your breath on the back of my neck, your weight on my spine. I feel you now, want you to the point of pain. Complete us.

Yes, now we are one. One soul, one body, one thought. Come to me, let me come to you. Hold me, tighter, closer still. There is nothing else, only you, me and this intensity. Surrender thought now, only feel. Deeper, slower, breathless. Now, oh now. Let it be hard, fast, violent release.

Lay over me now. Let your weight hold me down for I could float away. Everything is vivid, sharpened, heightened. My skin feels taut. When your fingers touch me chains of shivers roll through my skin. No, darling one, I'm not cold. I am heat itself, exploding into our universe, firing our union. Just hold me. Let our bodies calm together.

And now you sleep, sated, warm,glorious in your abandon. I want you more than anything life may offer, but not now. Now, when I've wandered through us, through my favourite things which are us, now I want to watch your eyelids flutter, hear your barely there greeting, feel your heavy arm curl over me, when I roll into you, finally sleep with you.