A Story a Day May: May 31st – Into the wild blue yonder

The last day of the month. In a way it’s seemed longer but I’m very proud of what I’ve achieved. As I type this the counter on the StoryADayMay2011 Word document reads just shy of 25,000 words, half a http://nanowrimo.org novel. I’ve done NaNo three times so can write 50,000+ words in a month but in a way this has been more tricky as I’ve not known what the prompt is until the morning (sometimes afternoon / evening) but having written so many different things has been a wonderful experience (and affirmed my love for short stories) and having discovered http://creativecopychallenge.com along the way, I certainly won’t be short of inspiration.

So, back to today’s prompt: I’ve never written a western before, and it’s not a genre I read or particularly watch (although I enjoyed John Wayne’s True Grit) but I did look forward to a new challenge, especially has I have a fellow Radio Litopia friend who writes westerns professionally (http://jackmartinwesterns.webs.com) and I’ve wondered how it’s done. I’m not sure if I’ve answered that question but here goes:

 

“Bessie! Bessie!”

The young girl ran out of the dilapidated cabin to see who was calling her name.

A uniformed man on horseback with a small boy lying behind him, across the horse, pulled up. “Whoa there. Easy does it.”

“Sherriff? What’s all the hollering?”

“Take him from me, girl,” the man answered, jerking his head in the direction of the boy.

“Who… who is he?”

“Not sure. Found him on my way here.”

“Is he… dead?”

“Reckon there’s a bit of life left in him but not for much longer if you don’t…”

“Yes. Here… He’s so light. Skin and bones is all he is. Has he no family?”

“Hurry girl. Stop yapping. Look after him until your pa returns, you hear?”

“Yes sir. I’ll take great care. Sure I will.”

“You’re a good girl. Your ma would be proud of you.”

Bess smiled slightly and took the boy into the cabin. She laid him down gently on to the smallest of two beds in the single-roomed building, before returning outside.

The sheriff had already turned his horse and was about to kick his ankle to spur the animal on when Bess called after him. He turned back to face her.

“Sheriff. You said you were on your way here. Was it something I could help you with, sir?”

“No,” the sheriff smiled at how much like an adult she was already, “just coming here to check on you. I’d promised your pa.”

Bess blushed. “I’m fine. Really I am. And now I have company.”

The sheriff laughed. “I reckon it’ll be a while before he’s decent company for you Bessie but yes, you’re right, he’ll be good for you.”

She watched the sheriff ride into the wide blue yonder then hurried back into the cabin. Pulling a blanket from the other bed, she laid it carefully over the boy then went to the hearth, removing a pot hanging over the unlit fire which she took to the kitchen area then returned, lit the fire and boiled up some broth.

While she was stirring it, she looked over at the boy who was beginning to come round.

“Mama!” he called out, making Bess whimper at the thought of missing hers.

She spooned out some of the broth into a small wooden bowl and took it over to the bed, blowing on it as she walked. Sitting next to him, she smiled. “Can you sit up a little? Don’t want to make you choke now.”

The boy nodded cautiously and pulled himself upright, wincing as he did so.

“It’s OK,” Bess said, “we’ll take good care of you, make you all better.”

Until the sheriff found out who the boy was, and reunited him with his family, if he had one, Bess decided, she’d be his mother and reckoned that the sheriff was right, hers would have been very proud indeed.

 

Although I don’t think Jack needs to worry about me as competition, it was enjoyable to do if not perhaps totally accurate – feel free to let me know.

 

A Story a Day May: May 30th – The Lake at Dusk

Today’s prompt sounded easy enough until I read past the title. The blurb was a stanza from “The Lake At Dusk” by Robin Robertson (from Swithering, Harcourt 2006): Rinsed after the rain / The forest is triggered and trip-wired / When I pause for a bird call / The silence takes time / To reassemble around me / Like a dream retrieved / No-one will find me here.

 

As Hannah walked through the front door, she felt like she’d been through a washing machine only someone had forgotten to set it to spin.

“Stay there!” her mother shouted from the kitchen doorway when she saw the state of her. “I don’t want you dripping through the house.”

“But mum I’m freezing.”

“The heating’s on, you’ll soon dry.”

Hannah went to step towards the radiator.

“Don’t!”

“But…”

“No.”

“Can’t I at least…”

Her mother shook her head.

“But I haven’t asked…” Hannah looked down at her shoes.

“Alright then,” her mother conceded. “But just your shoes. You and they stay on the mat.”

Hannah was used to being spoken to like this but she thought that even this was harsh.

“Where have you been anyway?”

This was different. Curiosity bordering on concern. A flicker of compassion.

“The shopping centre,” Hannah lied.

“No you haven’t. They shut at seven on a Friday.”

Hannah said nothing.

“Well?”

Hannah knew she’d find out eventually. “The woods.”

Her mother shrugged her shoulders, truth clearly outweighing risk.

“And it was scary,” Hannah whispered.

“You’re dripping,” her mother grumbled, throwing the washing-up towel she’d been holding. Despite falling short of its intended target, she ignored it and returned to the kitchen, getting another tea towel from the drawer and continuing to dry the dishes from the evening meal that Hannah had missed.

The smell of the food still clung to the air making Hannah’s stomach growl. She stared at the towel then at the kitchen. Shaking her body like a dog, she figured she’d be dry enough to tread the few yards in socked feet to retrieve the towel but putting her right foot forward she heard a squelch so bent down taking off her socks.

Like a gymnast she leant towards the radiator and hung the socks over the top of the curved white metal; the metal that was now piping hot; the heat that would suck up her moisture if only it was allowed to.

“What you doing?”

Hannah looked round to see her brother, David, standing in the lounge doorway holding a yoghurt pot and licking the spoon.

“Trying to get warm. What does it look like?”

“You look stupid.”

“Thanks. Charming as ever.”

“You been seeing Jason again?”

“How do you know his name?”

“Everyone at school’s talking about it. The romance of the year.”

“Hardly.”

“Why? He dumped you?”

“No!”

“He has!”

“Shut up!”

“Did he tell you to meet him by the lake at dusk, all romantic like.”

“What?”

“He did the same to Emma, only he didn’t turn up then told everyone at school the next day that she was easy just by her being there.”

“Emma? My Emma?”

“Yes, your Emma. Bezzie mate Emma.”

“When?”

“Last week sometime. When you was…”

“Were.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“When I was visiting Nan in hospital?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“She phoned me. Crying. Said her uncle had died. I didn’t even know she had one.”

“Probably doesn’t. Just wanted you to feel sorry for her. So you went through Priory Woods, to meet him and he didn’t…”

“Change the record, David.”

“What?”

“Record. Round flat thing made of black plastic… oh, never mind.”

“And you went in the dark. Even you’re not that stupid.”

“It wasn’t dark.”

“Not when you went, no, but… you waited that long? You are that stu…”

“I wasn’t waiting.”

He looked down then picked up the tea towel. “You want this?”

Hannah nodded.

“OK,” David said handing it out to her, just short of reach.

Hannah closed her eyes and sighed. David stepped nearer and nudged her hand with it. “Here. I’m not that mean. Not like…”

Hannah’s eyes bolted open then glared at her brother.

“Alright,” he said, “subject closed.”

They stared at each other until he spoke again. “Was it really horrible?”

“Please don’t.”

“I don’t mean being stood up, though I bet that was… OK. No, I mean going through the wood after dark. It’s supposed to be haunted.”

“Now you tell me.”

“You didn’t exactly ask. Didn’t tell anyone you were going, did you?”

Hannah shook her head.

“What was it like?” David continued.

“Quiet. No birds, nothing. Like death.”

“Who are you talking to?” Hannah’s mother asked as she walked through the hall to take her husband a cup of tea.

“No-one mum,” she said.

Her mother paused. “You did, didn’t you? Oh Hannah, please don’t go down there again. You know how I feel about that place. David made that mistake. We can’t lose you too. OK?”

“OK mum,” Hannah said and feeling warmer than she had in a long time, she even tried a smile.

 

Another uplifting story.

 

A Story a Day May: May 29th – Don’t

Although I saw the prompt (the word ‘don’t’ alongside a Lara Croft-type picture) early in the morning, but was out all day so didn’t get to start writing until nearly 9pm so it’s short and sweet/not-so-sweet* (*delete as appropriate).

 

“You’re not going out like that are you?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s a fancy dress party and I’m going as…”

“Lara Croft. Yes, you’re spot on.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You’re too spot on.”

“Eh?”

“The guns.”

“But they’re not real.”

“You know that, I know that, but if you get stopped by the cops they won’t know that.”

“No. But it’s fancy…”

“Dress. I know. But it’s still a gun. Black and shiny and you know them as well as I do; they’ll pounce on anything black and shiny… well, anything black.”

“Dad!”

“OK then I’ll drive you.”

“You’re not taking me there in that thing.”

“Can’t you just take off the gun belt then and put it in a carrier bag or something?”

“But I’m walking there with Emma and Nate.”

“So? They won’t be wearing guns too?”

“Probably not.”

“Then they won’t notice until you get to the house and…”

“The party’s in the park.”

“Then you’re definitely not taking them.”

“Oh Dad. Just because you’re the Chief Inspector…”

 

Not sure that works but it’s a first draft so I can be allowed… plus it’s late. I know, poor excuse but that’s what post-month end editing is for.

 

A Story a Day May: May 28th – Man overboard

The crowds cheered as the ship left Southampton, relatives and friends waving from quayside to stern.

For Sylvia though there was no-one waving to her. Her only living relative had already gone to their cabin. To unpack, relax, watch TV if there was one in the room. She’d forgotten to check when she’d booked, last minute, a Caribbean cruise to get him, Ronnie, off her back. It had been his idea for a holiday, hers though the cruise, knowing that he hated planes. Hated anything that moved, so it had taken some persuading to get him here and that’s why she’d left it late. So he’d have no choice. Turned it round so he’d thought it was his idea; congratulated himself in the end.

Long after the passengers had gone to their rooms, Sylvia was still standing on the deck. She’d leave him as long as she could, hoping he’d be too engrossed in a political memoir or thriller to notice she’d returned. Save what little conversation they had left for another time.

Timing her return just short of the evening meal, he was already dressed in his dinner suit when she opened the cabin door. “You look smart dear,” she said, despite thinking it more appropriate for a funeral.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry dear. I’ve been taking in the view, it’s…”

“You’re going to get changed aren’t you?”

“Of course dear.”

“Well, hurry up.”

“Yes dear.”

They took their places at a corner table, choosing to be away from the other passengers. Ronnie hated crowds and even more so glaring lights so anonymity suited him. Although they were two of the youngest people in the room, Sylvia would have rather be surrounded, part of the chatter but knew which actions made for an easier life.

With so much food on offer they were spoilt for choice although with Ronnie’s gammy leg, Sylvia did all the choosing and carrying.

“Bit plain this food,” was his first response so she’d gone for something more interesting the second round. “You know I don’t like spicy” then made her tone it down and by the time they’d had everything on offer, Sylvia noticed that the room was almost empty.

“Nearly midnight,” Ronnie announced.

“Is it dear?” Syvlia asked, images of the dancing still playing round in her head. She’d liked to have joined in but she knew he would have refused and even worse had she been asked by someone else. She’d had snippets of conversation at the buffet tables but then had to leave the talk half-finished when the plates were themselves full.

“Come on then,” he’d barked and got up to return to their cabin, leaving a wake of plates scattered around the table, having been neglected by the waiters who’d been concentrating on the fuller parts of the room.

Being late November, Syliva wasn’t surprised that the ship hadn’t been busy assuming that the summer would have been a different story.

“Let’s take a walk along the deck,” Sylvia suggested as she followed him out of the large dining room.

“What for?”

“To get some fresh air.”

“We live in the country, you’re surrounded by fresh air.”

“But this is the middle of the ocean.”

“Exactly. Nothing to see.”

“Please Ronnie. For me.” She didn’t play the ‘for me’ card very often because it didn’t usually work but he must have been in the holiday mood because he veered away from the direction of the cabin corridors instead heading towards the outer deck.

Keeping close to the railing, Sylvia breathed in deeply. “Isn’t this lovely Ronnie?”

Ronnie grunted.

“Come look Ronnie. At the sparkling water.”

“You know I’m not keen on water and that I can’t…”

“It’s alright darling, there’s a rail all round.”

“Well…”

 

“No, Ronnie! No! Help! Please someone! Help!”

A middle-aged uniformed man ran to Sylvia as she peered over the edge. “Madam! What’s the matter?”

“It’s my husband! He’s fallen in the water. Please, do something… please hurry.”

The man leant over the side of the ship looking in every direction. “Are you sure madam, I can’t see anything.”

“Yes, he did. Please you have to do something. He can’t swim.” Sylvia was now sobbing.

The man dug in his pocket, pulled out a tissue which he gave to Sylvia and a mobile on which he dialled a couple of digits. “Henry Stephens here, I play the piano in the… yeah. There’s a lady here on deck who says her husband’s fallen over the side… OK, thanks. At the back, by the tennis… please, she’d doing her nut. Cheers.”

Continuing to look out at sea and calling Ronnie’s name, Sylvia wasn’t paying much attention to what was happening behind her until she heard her name being called.

“Mrs Peters… Mrs Peters?”

Sylvia swung round. “Sorry?”

“I’m the Captain, Mrs Peters, you say…”

“Yes, it’s my husband. We were just standing here admiring the view when… he… he can’t swim and he was leaning looking down at the water when… I couldn’t stop him… it all happened so quickly. Please do something.”

“I’m sorry Mrs Peters but you say your husband?”

“Yes, Ronnie.”

“We don’t have your husband listed on the ship’s…”

“I remember you,” a woman said from behind the Captain. She stepped forward and looked at Sylvia. “We were chatting when you were getting the food from the buffet. You were filling two plates. I asked you if you were hungry but you said it was force of habit. That your husband had died recently in a boating accident. That you hadn’t adjusted yet and were still doing things as if he were still alive.

Silently, Sylvia nodded.

“Well, there then,” the Captain said gently. “That explains it. You must have seen something that reminded you and… the mind can play tricks you know.”

Silvia nodded again. “Thank you. You’ve been so kind. I’m just being a silly…”

“Nonsense Mrs…” the pianist started.

“Peters,” Sylvia replied.

“It’s quite understandable. It must be very raw.”

Sylvia smiled weakly.

“Take her back to her cabin will you…” the Captain said to the pianist.

“Henry,” Henry told him.

“Yes, thank you Henry.”

“And you must sit with me tomorrow evening,” the Captain said turning back to Sylvia.

“Thank you, that does sound lovely,” Sylvia whispered.

The group dispersed and Henry walked Sylvia back to her cabin. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asked as she put her key in the lock.

“I will, thank you. I’m sure it’ll just take a bit of time to get used to…”

Henry smiled then continued walking down the corridor.

Sylvia went inside their cabin, now hers, shut the door behind her then giggled like a child. “Who said there couldn’t be the perfect murder?”

 

This may be a well-trodden plot but fun to do nonetheless.

 

A Story a Day May: May 27th – Feeling like a child again

I wasn’t initially overjoyed with the prompt ‘Graduation’ (because in the strict sense of the word it’s more of an American tradition than English) but then I read on and the actual prompt was to ‘write a story that contains a transition, an ending or a new beginning’. That, I thought, I can do.

I grip the handle but can’t bring myself to open the door. Someone behind me coughs. Without looking, I step sideways, letting go. I’m good at that. Letting go.

I smile at the growling face which in turn grunts at me.

I puff a breath of air after he’s gone and tell myself not to walk back to the car park. I’ve played this scenario twice this month and hope it’s third time lucky. It has to be. I have no choice. It’s now or never… well, now or I don’t get a job. I’m not going on the dole. Never done that, so it comes down to this; glass entrance door to my right, car to the left.

I can hear someone walking up the stairs but I don’t want to look because if I turn left the car park wins. So I keep looking straight ahead. I have time. Bert gave me redundancy when he retired. Two thousand pounds. Three months’ rent, food, car bills. I’ve worked it out. I’m good with figures. Bunch of roses £4.99, Chrysanthemums £3.99, Carnations £2.99. My favourite’s Gerberas. 75p a stem.  Even a mixed bunch I’d add like lightning. That’s what Bert used to say.

It’s words I have trouble with. That’s why I’m here. Bert didn’t mind. He’s the only one who knew. Him and my mum but I don’t have either of them now. So I need to help myself.

It’s a man. I thought it was a man. Heavy footsteps. Large feet.

He stops at the door and turns round to look at me. It’s OK. I don’t mind.

“Going in?” he asks. I nod. So he opens the door and waits. I have no choice now. He doesn’t do anything when I don’t either. Then he smiles. He’s got a nice smile. Friendly. Comforting. Just what I need.

“The class starts in a few minutes,” he says, but it’s not accusatory, it’s advisory. Then I laugh at the big words I’ve just thought. He laughs too.

Then it dawns on me. “How do you know which class I’m going to?” I ask him.

He taps the side of his briefcase. “I have a rota,” he whispers as if it’s top secret. “Don’t worry,” he winks, “I don’t bite.”

I decided to go with an uplifting story because I’m inclined to do depressing beginnings / endings to life so went with a mid-life re-start instead. And yes, gerberas are my favourites too.

 

A Story A Day May: May 26th – Sparkly

When I saw the title, I thought this wouldn’t be a prompt I’d looking forward to doing but then as I read the description and saw it as ‘sparkly blue depression’ I thought it had ‘legs’. Here goes:

Being lumbered with the name ‘Sparkly Blue’ wasn’t the best start in life. And unlike her legendary father, rock musician Rick Maitland, who’d managed to avoid heavy drinking and drug-taking all his professional life, she’d not faired so well.

It’s difficult to tell whether ‘Blue’, as she preferred to be called, would have suffered with depression if she’d been given a different, more ‘normal’ name, but thus she was. Some days she felt non-human, mechanical, going through the motions of living a life. Only it was a life that she wasn’t sure she wanted anymore.

She’d look at one of the en-suite’s bathroom mirrors in the mansion’s east wing and not recognise the person staring back at her. She was fatter, older and not as pretty as the girl she’d expected to see. She’d lean in close, breathe, then write words in the mist. It would tend to smelly funny too. And not funny ha-ha.

 

“Are you alright?” Rick said one day, as he passed the open door.

“Dad, don’t fuss.”

“Not fussing. Just asking.”

“I’m fine.”

“OK then,” he said, hoping to sound more cheerful than he felt. She was his only child and since her mother had died he’d not really known what to do. He knew there was a problem and didn’t want to be a typical celebrity dad where they ship in a series of women to ‘mother’ her. Or shrinks. She was messed up enough already. So it was him and her against the world.

He waited along the corridor near the top of the stairs, still in earshot, but heard nothing. He hoped she’d at least be smiling, showing the white teeth that his last single’s sales had paid to restore. Seeing her smile, if only for a few weeks, had been worth it. Then she’d remembered… the accident… the one she’d blamed herself for, and gone back to her old ways. Worse. An enlarged version of her.

Rick was just about to go downstairs to speak to the housekeeper about lunch when he heard a scream from behind him, from the bathroom.

Running back to his daughter, he saw her peering into the sink, sobbing. He peered too and saw a mix of tears and red revolving down the drain. Grabbing her wrists, he pulled them towards him. Apart from old scars they were dry, untouched.

“It’s alright Dad,” she stammered, “it’s not blood.”

Rick looked in the sink again then back at Blue.

“It’s nail varnish Dad,” she explained.

“Why are you crying if it’s just…?”

“It was the last thing that mum…”

“Oh darling.”

“And I wanted to look nice for you, to make up for…”

Rick put his arms round her and hugged her until she stopped crying… until they went downstairs… until the end of time.

I was a couple of paragraphs in when an email came in from http://creativecopychallenge.com with their latest (#147) set of keywords (mechanical, close, breathe, tend, fuss, enlarge, scream, mix, drain and grab) so I decided to include them as well… and to do them in that order. I do like a challenge.

 

A Story a Day May: May 25th – She suspects

As soon as I saw the prompt was ‘ritual’, I knew the perfect story…

Angela has her rituals. The week timed to the minute; bed at 11, up at 8 then depending on the day, she’s collected to go shopping, a ‘do’ at the library or lunch at the village café. In between she gardens, watches a bit of TV or reads. She loves to know about peoples’ lives – one impression on TV, another in a book. Fiction doesn’t interest her, although she suspects there is some in the biographies, so picks autobiographies where she can. From the celebrities’ own pens, although she suspects that there is more than one person holding that pen.

If asked whether she likes living alone, she’d say a definitive ‘no’. Alone and lonely? Yes. She can’t understand anyone living alone to not be lonely. To her, humans are monogamous creatures; destined to live in pairs, although she suspects some are more successful than others.

Her pairing had been successful, for nearly 50 years. Until he’d died.

She suspects that her daughter is lonely. She always puts on a brave face when visiting but Angela can see her eyes dull when she thinks her mum isn’t looking. She, her daughter, hasn’t mentioned a man for years. Angela suspects there might be a woman and she wouldn’t mind if there was. She’s accepted the lack of grandchildren, dotes on her daughter’s dog, but just wants her to be happy.

Angela wonders whether her daughter doesn’t mention things because she, Angela, has stopped listening. It’s not that she doesn’t want to know. She thinks she should make more of an effort but then she’ll have forgotten to do so by the time her daughter next visits or phones.

Angela doesn’t phone. She thinks she’s disturbing. Her daughter’s busy, getting busier as the frequency of calls and visits diminish. Like Angela’s working brain cells. She suspects it’ll be a slow process. Hopes. No-one’s noticed yet, or at least not said anything. But then with a memory like hers… no, she’d remember that. She remembers the important things: birthdays, anniversaries, her anniversary… August 1st. It’s coming up soon and she’s dreading it. 50 years, two without him.

She’s tired today, more than usual. She decides to have a lie down, rest her arthritic knees and racing brain. She suspects they’ll still be active, reactive, when she wakes. She just hopes that it won’t be for much longer.

Another cheery tome from yours truly.

 

A Story a Day May: May 24th – A life-changing moment

Armed with today’s prompt, I took my dog to the park and ended up writing the whole thing in the hour it took us to walk round the old racecourse. Here it is…

I can’t bear it. It’s been… oh God, six hours. That’s not a good sign, is it? But she’s alive. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters.

I hate hospitals. That’s not strictly true. The last time I was… we were here, was when I gave birth to her. Six years ago. An hour a year. If they’re another hour… please let them be another hour… let her see seven.

Nick was here then. Holding my hand while I screamed at him, calling him every name. You don’t know what you’re doing when you’re… you know how it goes. Or not. Maybe you don’t.

Oh God, please don’t let me lose them both. I’ll go to church again, I promise. You can’t be that cruel twice. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m…

Nurse! Please, is there any…? Thank you. I’d be grateful… very…

I don’t know what I’d do if… no, mustn’t think like that. She’ll be fine. She has to be. She just will.

It’s my fault. Well, not totally. I wasn’t the one driving, speeding outside a school. Who does that? But I was late. A minute or two, that’s all. Stayed to listen to the end of a play. Put it before her though, didn’t I? Nothing’s more important, I knew that. Know that.

If I’d been early, on time, the car wouldn’t have been there yet. The road would have been clear when she’d chased the… yes, it’s the cat’s fault. No, mine. We usually hold hands but I’d let go so she could say “hello”. That’s all, just a hello.

Of course the road may not have been clear, it’s a school, but other drivers, parents, would have been going slower, legal, and they would have stopped. I hope they catch the son of a…

Oh no, he’s walking towards me. He’s taking his… what’s it called? The surgical cap thing. No, no, no, no… please don’t say…

“Yes, I am.” I don’t want to say anything else. I just want him to speak. Tell me quickly, get it over and done… one way or the other. Just say something. Why isn’t he saying something? He must have done this hundreds of times.

Good news would be easy, quick. So it’s… He’s speaking. Just don’t let him say, “we did everything we could” or “I’m sorry Mrs Everett…”

I don’t need every detail. It’s too complicated.

“Please,” I say out loud, “just tell me. I can handle it.” I’ve handled it before. Five years ago. Sudden, like this, couldn’t be helped. Of course it could have. Everything can be helped but we knew the risks. You don’t marry a policeman lightly.

Then he tells me. Magic words; “very slow recovery… will need your support… more operations” but I don’t care what it takes. She’s alive. Then it hits me; that her life has come full circle. Mine too. We’ll both leave hospital not knowing what the future holds but I know one thing for sure, she’ll never be more loved and I’ll be there… holding her hand, every step of the way.

Ah yes, quite pleased with that.

 

A Story a Day May: May 23rd – A story set in a small town

My first thought was “yay, I can do that” and set off on my dog walk. Then I got stuck. One of my Monday night writing groupies lives near me, on one of our longer walks and I dropped in a note (as I always do when I’m walking past) to tell her of today’s prompt and as it would happen she was downstairs and heard the letterbox go so called out after me, inviting me in for a cup of tea. We chatted about the prompt and she gave me the idea of having an external character to rock the boat. So, thank you Denny.

Broadville didn’t exactly follow the Trades Description Act. Perhaps the town planners were a little overoptimistic but in the 1900s when it was first laid out it consisted of one straight road, ten houses, one shop and 33 residents; 19 adults and 14 children. Now over a century later it is still one road, ten houses, and 33 residents. They do also now have a pub, run by the brother of one the newest female residents. It doesn’t make much money but they’re a self-sufficient community so muddle along nicely.

That is until a stranger came to town.

“Excuse me, are you lost?”

“I don’t think so.”

“On your way somewhere?”

“Not particularly.”

“There aren’t any houses for sale here.”

“That’s OK, I’m not looking.”

Fred Tindell was stumped. No-one came to Broadville unless they were visiting and being the oldest resident, he knew this guy wasn’t here for that. He also figured that asking more questions wouldn’t get anything but trouble so smiled, tipped his hat and went off to the pub for his evening constitutional.

As he approached the pub’s front door he glanced back and saw the man heading for the shop. With no way for the stranger to see Fred without turning round, Fred waited and watched him go inside.

Fred waited some more. And waited. And waited. He was a pretty patient chap, he’d nursed his wife through cancer, even endured the soaps while she endured the treatment. The pub’s opening hours were dependent upon who wanted serving so he had plenty of time to kill.

Thinking that he must have missed him, though not sure how, Fred was about to go into the pub when the man came out of the shop. Fred snuck behind a pillar and pretended to text on a mobile phone. He didn’t have one and was just tapping into his palm but the stranger wouldn’t know that. Fred laughed quietly at getting one over on him. Except he wouldn’t have known that either, because he wasn’t looking. He was chatting to Elver, the owner of the shop, Fred’s less-than-honest brother in law.

Fred watched them shake hands. That wasn’t good. He knew saying anything to Elver would prove fruitless but Elver talked to his sister so Fred would just have to bide his time.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The following evening when he returned from the pub, Doris put his favourite meal in front of him. Shepherd’s Pie. He loved the intricate plough-lines that she’d weave into the topping. Her smile was extra perky as she placed the dish in front of him.

“Had a good day dear?” he asked her.

“Oh, you know, the same as usual really.”

“That’s good dear. So nothing special happened then.”

“Not really,” she said hesitantly but then pulled out the chair opposite him and slumped into it. Fred stared at her as her eyes worked out how to tell him the news. Since she’d lost her hair, her pale green eyes had become even more noticeable and hadn’t lost any of their shine as her baby-soft blonde fuzz grew back.

“You know something, don’t you?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“You do, I can tell.”

“I saw a guy go into Elver’s shop last night and…”

“You did? What was he like?”

“Rude.”

“You spoke to him.”

“Briefly.”

“So what did your brother say he wanted?”

Her smile broadened to a grin. “You’ll never guess.”

Guessing was one thing that Fred was particularly bad at and Doris knew that, so from the look on his face she knew not to prolong her answer. “A film shoot,” she blurted out.

“Really?” Flashes of Cary Grant, Sophia Loren and Audrey Hepburn ran through his brain.

“Well, not film,” she added.

Fred deflated.

“The small screen.”

That’s OK, Fred thought, a lot of movies are shown on TV these days.

“Emmerdale,” she continued. “They want to use our little town to do a specific scene.”

“Really?” he asked, salvaging some enthusiasm and thinkin that he might even get a walk-on part.

“Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically. “Elver thinks it’s a plane crash… or did he say train?”

OK great, Fred thought, as if I haven’t had enough drama in my life.

Mmm, not sure about mix of tenses near the beginning, will have to look at that. Actually not really sure about a lot of it but never mind, it’s a first draft and I finished just before midnight (I’d had no time between the dog walk start and the late night finish) so tiredness got the better of me.

 

A Story a Day May: May 22nd – The Case That Sherlock Couldn’t Crack

Today’s prompt was given in celebration with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s birthday. I decided to go off at a tangent (as is my way).

Being named after a famous figure from history was always going to weigh heavily on my shoulders. Sherlock. I mean, who these days calls their kid Sherlock? Well, back in the 1960s. OK, that proves my point.

You see my parents were fans of literature and they had everything that Sir Arthur had written; signed first editions included. I was torn when they died what to do with them. The books, that is, not my parents. I had a choice; keep them, let them gather dust, and work full-time or sell them and live comfortably. Yes, you can guess what I did. Besides, with them filling almost every bookcase in the house it meant I wasn’t tripping over stuff. OK, slight exaggeration but I like a lived-in-but-neat-and-tidy existence, plus submitting stories to competitions doesn’t come cheap. Yeah, I’m a literature fan too.

What I hadn’t expected going through it all was finding Sir Arthur’s journals. All handwritten, all signed. Bit egotistical if you ask me – like he knew they’d be worth something one day. Maybe they already were. Who knows? Sir Arthur, I suppose. I must admit that I did get rather excited when I found them; stuffed rather irreverently in an old shoe box. Well, I say ‘old’ not as old as the journals. 1950s judging by the brand, lettering etc. Felt a bit like a detective myself. Figure Sherlock would have been proud. Anyway, these journals, were a bit of a shock. Didn’t think my parents had been that wealthy, being one-offs and all that.

Then the biggest shock was when I sat down and read them. Took me a while, a few days actually, and… I still can’t believe it even now. Some… ten?… no, eleven years later.

That Sherlock had a child. With Irene Adler. I did think at the time “why didn’t she tell him?” but then felt stupid because they’re just fictional characters. But then I started putting two and two together, and probably got five but it did made me wonder why Sir Arthur had written it in the journals but then not acted on it. You know, written another story about it. He wasn’t Sherlock’s biggest fan, he had tried to kill him off so this bit of unwed scandal would have been easy. Up the ratings as well for sure.

So I did a bit of digging online. The internet back then wasn’t as forthcoming as it would be now, and so I didn’t find anything. But then I wouldn’t, would I? They were only in his journals.  But I wondered why he’d put anything at all. It wasn’t until I re-read those passages that a pattern started forming, like a coded message. Now I knew Sherlock would have been proud of me. Well, probably not given the circumstances, especially if he didn’t know he was a dad.

But when I’d finally worked it out, there it was in black and white. A name. Sherlock’s love child, I think Sir Arthur’s love child, my grandmother’s name; Irene.

Mmm, I’m not sure it works (I’ve had a busy day) but a work in progress perhaps.

 

A Story a Day May: May 20th – A Story for Amelia Earheart

History was my worst subject at school so my (ear)heart sank when I saw this prompt but I had a go anyway.

“What do you want to do when you grow up, Amelia?” Samuel Earheart asked his daughter.

“I want to fly.”

“No, I mean as a career… a job… something you get paid for, honey.”

“Yes Pop, I wanna fly.”

“Women don’t fly, dear. People don’t fly.”

“Some do, son,” Amelia’s grandfather corrected. “There’s a man in Australia, Lawrence Hargrave who’s been flying a box-kite glider for a few years now. And only last year, no, the year before, 1901, a man… now what was his name… a German… Gustave something, here in the US. Fairfax it was, Connecticut, I remember now, Gustave Whitehead. It made me laugh, his name, because of my white hair. I read somewhere that he’d made a powered flight. But I’m not sure. They say there are some brothers… two, I think, in… Indiana, who are doing the same thing. I think they’re gonna be quite successful. Just an inclin’. Like you, Amelia. You can do whatever you want to do.”

“Do you really think so, Grandpa?”

“Of course, dear. Put your mind to it and the world is… yours for the taking.”

“Really?” Amelia asked, wide-eyed.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Have you been outside of Kansas, Grandpa?”

“I have, Amelia,” her grandfather said enthusiastically.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Amelia’s father said, getting out of his chair and leaving the room.

Oblivious, Amelia stared into her grandfather’s eyes. “Tell me where.”

“Ooh, all over, sugar.”

“Where, Grandpa?”

“Colorado, Nebraska, Wyoming… even been to California once.”

The smile disappeared from the little girl’s face. “Only America?”

“Oh no,” her grandfather beamed. “I’ve been everywhere.”

Amelia leant forward and whispered, “You have?”

Her grandfather nodded seriously. “I have, Amelia, everywhere.”

Eyes widening, Amelia gasped.

The old man brought his right hand up to the side of his head and tapped his temple with his index finger. “In here, Amelia, you can go anywhere your imagination will take you. You dream big Amelia and there’ll be nothing stopping you.”

Amelia giggled, clapped her hands then leant forward to kiss her grandfather’s left cheek, making the old man blush.

Short and sweet.

Research thanks goes to all the contributors at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amelia_earhart (born in Kansas), http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fixed-wing_aircraft#History and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustave_Whitehead

 

A Story a Day May: May 19th – A Dark Day: Scientifically unexplained occurrence

I didn’t think I wasn’t going to do today’s prompt but I did. I think.

“Science? What do I know about science?”

“Well then, just make something up.”

“I could do but… won’t they know?”

“You’re clever. You’ll think of something.”

“I don’t think I’m that clever.”

“You might surprise yourself.”

“But 20,000 words. If it was 2,000 then maybe…”

“Just do it, Sam.”

“OK. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

The Bermuda Triangle. It’s been written about to death. Pardon the pun. If all the experts in the world and Wikipedia subscribers can’t come up with an explanation then how am I…? I could say some kind of boat-eating creature but then that would be as ridiculous as… well, the Loch Ness Monster. And even I know that doesn’t exist.

Talking to my editor is never a pleasant experience. She’s too much like my mother. Well, not mine necessarily but a mother. She’s… mothering, smothering. But she pays the bills so she is ‘she who must be obeyed’ so that’s what I do.

At least this time she’s given me a month to do it. And £5000. She never gives me that kind of budget. Unless she… oh no. She wants me to go there. Without ordering me. Sending me to my doom. That wouldn’t tick her Health & Safety boxes.

I guess I could go to the area, interview the locals, get their spin on it. A couple of weeks on a tropical island wouldn’t hurt. I could do a quick piece. 20K doesn’t take long. I’ve done NaNoWriMo three times. It’s that 50,000 words in a month, you know. Oh, well, start 1st November stop 31st with 50,000 words (or more) in between. 30. Of course. See, I can’t even remember that November hath 30 days. And all that.

So as I was saying, a couple of weeks on a tropical island… is Bermuda tropical? At least that’s geography not science… sort of.

OK, let’s see. All-inclusive packages. A week? No. Who goes somewhere like that for a week? Three weeks, that’s more like it. God, that’s cheap. Oh yeah, I see why now. Tonight. Well, I suppose I could. Nothing stopping me here. No animals, plants half-dead anyway, and I could get Mrs Roberts… Robbins? Robinson? to come in and water them. I’ve got a spare key under the mat. Yeah, I know, not very original. There’s nothing much to steal anyway but that’s not the point. I should move it. Well, I will when I give it to… Her garden’s immaculate so she might get them blooming again. Or take them hostage. She can keep them, I don’t mind. I’ll probably get plastic ones, or silk – they’re nicer; less… shiny.

OK. So, nine pm it is. That gives me… seven to be there. Can’t be doing with being late. Some people don’t like all that hanging around and they’d rather queue than do a bit of shopping? Latest bestseller, cosy chair, a beer, a nice barmaid to chat to.

So, 7pm there, 6pm leave. That gives me… seven hours. Shower, pack… that’s easy. Jeans to travel, shorts and loud t-shirts… look like a tourist. Foreigners love spilling their deepest darkest secrets if they think there’s some money in it. And with a budget like mine that’ll buy a lot of wagging tongues. Four and a half grand. And Nance won’t be expecting many receipts. We do what we have to in this line of work. Beats accounting. That’s what I used to do, by the way; Finance Manager for a small and not very successful stationery company. Got out before they went under. Of course I was best placed to see that, wasn’t I? I’d been doing this on the side for a while so had built up a bit of a nest egg already. I know what you’re thinking; finance, a position of trust, siphon something off the top but I’m not like that. Some are, granted, but not me. Straight as a dye, whatever that means… metalwork? Thanks Google. That’s why I turned that couple in – at the tennis court. Well, it wasn’t fair on the dog. Just because I don’t have one myself it doesn’t mean…

So now the only figures I want to be staring at all day are bikini-clad ones. Long, lean, tanned ones. Mismatching tops and bottoms with just a little of their bottoms… OK, you get the picture.

 

It’s good to be home… nothing missing. Not that Mrs… whatever-her-name-is is that type but I had expected the plants… hello boys, you are looking healthy. Glad I brought her something back now.

So the article’s done, emailed to the wicked witch, good old wifi. Put on a bit of weight. Think I’ll take up jogging. Get some not-so-fresh UK air. Let the last three weeks go round in my brain one more time.

It seems obvious now I think about it; City of Atlantis underneath the Bermuda Triangle. All those people heading down to the city that doesn’t sleep. Now that was an all-inclusive holiday I won’t forget in a hurry.

So now you know, that’s what it really happens. Or not. And it struck me part-way through to bring Sam (from yesterday) back in and tie up some of the loose ends… and he had some fun this time.

 

A Story a Day May: May 18th – Court/caught (A shag-gy dog story)

Today’s http://storyadayorg prompt is a single keyword was ‘court’ and whilst I didn’t have an initial idea beyond the first paragraph it certainly didn’t go in the direction I thought it would.

Sam had never been to court before. He’d seen it plenty of times on TV but it was different in real life. Bigger, noisier, scarier. Having watched most of the detective dramas that his Sky+ memory bank could handle, he knew the language, the instructions that were passed around the room but even being there for the prosecution made him nervous.

He was early. He knew that. Far too early. It would be hours before he’d be called in. Less than that before the case started but he figured he’d probably have to stay in the corridor until then. On the hard wooden bench.

Maybe he’d stagger the coffee runs. One every half hour… or every hour. If he could last that long. But then he shouldn’t drink much in case he was in the toilet when they called his name. That would be unlucky. But he could be quick.

Even the solicitor wasn’t there yet. He’d met her once, at her office, coincidentally round the corner from his. ‘Finance Manager’ the sign on the door read. His, that is, not hers.

He’d not really wanted to get involved but being the only person to see what had happened, he’d not really had any choice. He’d been the one to call the police, the paramedics, the fire brigade. Waited until they’d arrived. Let them take a statement. The police. Give them his name. The real one.

He’d used his pseudonym so many times he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t used it then. He’d had no ID on him so they couldn’t prove otherwise and they wouldn’t have asked him to go down to the station. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d just been cycling past the tennis court on his way home, a bit earlier than usual but it had been a nice day so he’d treated himself to an early finish. He was the Manager; no-one queries last-thing appointments when you’re the Manager.

So it was the wrong place at the wrong time. And he hadn’t really been paying attention only you expect people to be playing tennis on a tennis court don’t you? You don’t expect…. well, that. And it wasn’t even dark. Not close to it. Four o’clock on a June weekday. Six hours before it gets dark. He reckoned it had been a dare. On reflection the woman hadn’t seemed that bothered. The guy looked less pleased but then he’d been in too much pain to say much. That would beat carpet burns any day.

Sam wasn’t sure where the frying pan came into it. Figured the gravel would have caused enough friction without adding Teflon to the mixture. Sam laughed at the omelette-type pun and watched a nervous young woman in a suit scuttle by. Not the same woman from the tennis court, Sam didn’t think she’d be nervous of anything, but a small shrew-like thing heading towards the courthouse ground floor ladies toilet.

It was the dog that Sam felt sorry for. Tied up in the corner, attached to the green plastic-coated metal fencing, having to watch… well, what Sam ended up watching.

He had to admire how nimble they were. He’d seen snippets of the Karma Sutra and didn’t remember seeing a picture for the position they’d got themselves into. Didn’t leave much to the imagination either but then he’d had to admire theirs.

And to be doing all that while wearing see-through cut-out wet suits. Sam didn’t even know they existed but thought it might make his next trip to Blue Corner Wall a bit more interesting.

The paramedics hadn’t seemed that surprised. Sam thought he’d heard one of them call the woman by name… Sindy, Candy, something ending in ‘dee’. He laughed again and thought of Sandra Dee and how she’d gone from sweet to sexy in an hour and a half. Or however long Grease ran for. Sam couldn’t imagine the woman at the tennis court ever being sweet, although whatever the toffee-coloured goo was they were rubbing over each other may have helped.

Sam was debating another trip to the coffee machine when he sensed someone standing over him. He looked up and recognised the dark blonde bob and pale pink lipstick.

“Hello Mr Taylor,” the woman said with the broadest, whitest smile Sam had ever seen. “Shall we go have some fun?”

A few loose ends there but I like Sam and think I’ll do something else with him.

 

A Story a Day May: May 17th – 10 keywords ‘The big game’

My first thought when I saw today’s prompt from http://storyaday.org was “fantastic”. 10 words to weave into today’s story. I love things like this (see May 13^th) and was glad of something ‘easy’ as I have another packed day today. The words given to us are in bold.

Joe was a regular kind of guy. Regular name, job (and therefore income), stature, looks.

Like anyone he loved holidays and preferred sun, sand and Sangria to exploring the deepest outbacks, a wildlife trek or climbing mountains. He and his three mates Tom, Rick and Bill would have the same week off every year, the first week in August, go to the travel agent, look in their window and pick something from the top row. As long as it was hot and had a beach they were happy. They could muck around anywhere.

During that week their wives would do their own things; a sun holiday elsewhere, a spa pamper packages or shopping trips to out-of-town retail outlet villages. These breaks would give them all time to remember their single lives for just long enough to have fun but then they’d start missing their partners and make up for being apart when they were reunited.

With the girls already booked in at a Scottish castle, the guys stood outside their local travel agents.

“I can’t see anything beachy,” Rick said.

“Me neither,” Tom agreed.

“Do we have to stick with the top row?” Bill asked.

“That’s the rule,” Joe reminded them.

“I’m going inside,” Rick said, Tom following him.

“But there’s nothing there,” Bill moaned to Joe as they continued to stare at the cards in the window.

“There’s plenty.”

“Yeah, on the second, third…”

“We always stick to the top.”

“Well, maybe this year…”

“And it’s worked out, hasn’t it? Maybe it’s time to do something different.” Joe pointed to the middle card on the top row. “There’s a shooting trip to Kenya.”

“You know Tom’s a vegetarian.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of shoot. Photography I’d say. They wouldn’t let you kill…”

“No, you’re right, Joe, they wouldn’t.”

“And the animals are in their natural habitat.”

“I suppose so.”

“But it would work out some of Rick’s frustration,” Joe conceded.

“About what?”

“He’s not told you?”

Bill shook his head.

“Mandy’s had an affair.”

“No!” Bill slapped his right hand over his mouth.

“Yeah, last summer. The only year you… When we were in…”

“Malaga. And he’s coming away with us this year?”

“She said it was a one-off.”

“She’s always been a bit… When did he find out?”

“Last week.”

“Last week! How?”

“He got her suitcase down from the loft and found some incriminating evidence.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure he knows who the guy is but…”

“And let’s hope he never finds out.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Bill hesitated. “It might be someone he knows.”

“His friends wouldn’t do that to him.”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“If he did something first.”

“What?”

“OK, let’s take that trip then,” Bill said, changing the subject, then lead the way, pulling at the shop door.

“It says ‘push’, Bill.”

The two men walked into the travel agent and headed for Tom and Rick.

Tom beamed at them. “We’ve found the perfect holiday.”

“Oh yes?” Joe smiled weakly.

“Yeah!” Tom grinned. “Trip to Kenya. Big hulking animals…” Then he turned to Bill. “And even bigger hulking guns.”

 

So, the words we were given (by the wonderful guys at http://www.creativecopychallenge.com do check them out) were: regular, sun, wild, muck, shoot, frustration, hand, take, push, trip and unlike usual exercises like this I decided to include them in that exact order. A couple of times I was tempted to deviate but it was more fun not to. The hardest one turned out to be ‘frustration’ as I wanted to put ‘frustrated’ or ‘frustrate’ and as I’d sort of cheated with wild/wildlife, I was determined to use the full word and I got there. And the best thing was that it took me about half an hour so had it done before I walked the dog, had a shower and headed off for my Red Cross stint (see yesterday’s ditty (part one) – http://wp.me/p18Ztn-9H).

 

A Story a Day May: May 16th – ‘Over’ (part two)

I did set today’s http://storyaday.org prompt ‘over’ as one of our exercises at tonight’s writing group and my 10 minute result was this…

“You know it’s been over for months.”

“If you felt like that why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“And you think it’s better to drag it out?”

“I was…”

“Go on.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t want to say anything but you would have found out anyway.”

“Found out what?”

“About Amy.”

“Who’s Amy?”

“You don’t know her.”

“I know I don’t know her. Who is she?”

“My…”

“You’re going to say ‘girlfriend’, aren’t you?

He couldn’t answer.

“She is, isn’t she?” Susan scowled.

He shook his head.”

“What IS she then?” Susan hissed.

“She’s my wife.”

 

That’s when I heard the screams. Through the walls. It probably would have been a kitchen knife, she’s a chef, but I couldn’t be sure. She knew how to chop things, dice and slice and he was her best yet. She’d studied biology at university – anatomy. Knew all about minimum impact, maximum pain.

Three hours apparently. Of course I’d thought it was the TV to start with. Well, you do don’t you? You don’t think that something like that is going to happen here. A sleepy village like Walbarton. Nothing exciting ever happens here.

I suppose it’s my fault. Oh, not them. I’m not Amy or anything like that but I needn’t have been listening that closely, heard every word. Glass against paper-thin plaster – it’s amazing what it can do.

Being the only witness, if you can call it that, I’ve been asked to testify but without a body I’m not sure how far it’ll go. They’ll try. They prosecute for anything these days.

And on that cheery note, I’m off to bed.

 

A Story a Day May: May 16th – Over (part one)

Today’s prompt is ‘over’ to use as we wish. I woke up full of cold (hinted at by a sore throat  Thursday morning) so was hoping for something simple. I wasn’t sure whether this was or not but we use one-word prompts in our Monday night workshops so I took the dog out for a walk and started coming up with ideas… resulting in this:

“Over,” I say and he crosses the road. Overnight, after oversleeping, I’ve become overcome with cold. I’m usually overrun with chores but I’m taking it easy today. A contrast to yesterday, blitzing my overgrown garden; now my pavement is overcrowded with overfilled brown wheelie bins and strong green gardening bags.

I look in the dictionary and have never heard of ‘overhand’. Wikipedia tells me it’s a boxing term and a knot, and I’m not a violent person but right now I’m angry. My neighbour’s extension has gone over and above what was promised to me, it’s already overhanging the light into my south-facing garden.

I head to the bank to check that I’m not overdrawn, not dipped into my overdraft, before buying some over-the-counter medicine before this cold overpowers me. I think I’ve been overcharged.

On the way home, another neighbour calls me over. So, switching off my iPod’s classical overture, we talk over the fence, while his England flag flutters overhead.

To say I’m fat is an overstatement, I’m a little overweight and could do with an overhaul of my eating habits, but it would be an oversimplification to say 5-a-day fruit and veg would do it. I often overlook them at the supermarket, an unhealthy oversight. My body’s been doing a bit too much overtime at the moment so it really wouldn’t hurt.

 An early night is also long overdue but I have plans tonight, I’m having writing friends over, so an afternoon nap will have to make do.

My back is complaining, it does that a lot. When I go to pick something up it says “don’t overdo it” but I never listen. Tomorrow morning I shall carry stacks of Red Cross-donated books which I’ll tip on to the counter and their shiny covers will slip against each other and overbalance on to the floor.

In the afternoon, what energies I have will be used to empty my loft, pre-electrician’s visit, bring down the boxes of already-bought presents that will overwhelm my mother in September, when she’s easily pleased, although I suspect she overplays it, oversells for my benefit. My aunt, her twin, will just look overawed, carrying her overladen gift bag into the kitchen, putting her Andre Rieu DVDs with the others. An überfan.

Then Wednesday lunchtime my job sharer will read me her handover notes as our shifts overlap, my turn to work two and a half days before another weekend arrives.

I usually travel overseas but my friend and I are busy so we’ll wait a year. She’s off to Mexico, me to Winchester. I’ve never been there before so I’ll need to pay attention so I don’t overshoot the junction, overstep the mark on the map for the venue.

If I played cricket I think it would be underarm not overarm, that’s just how I throw; like a girl.

Litopia’s AgentPete calls me an overachiever but I like to think I’m just overjoyed with all things literary. We chat during Sunday night’s Open House then our Skype connection is terminated before I overstay my welcome. I live and breathe writing, albeit stuffily through a red overblown nose. I sneeze over and over again.

Having over-egged today’s prompt, this ditty is over. Well, anymore would be overkill, wouldn’t it?

I had planned to give this prompt at tonight’s writing workshop, and I still will so I’m glad that it included so many ‘over’s. It’ll be interesting to pick one (or perhaps another one that wins them over, sorry couldn’t resist) and see what that leads to.

 

A Story a Day May: May 15th – second person viewpoint ‘Ghost’

Again I woke up to no prompt from http://storyaday.org, which was a tad disappointing. Although they are totally optional, I do enjoy seeing our order for the day and working on it. With a morning scheduled away from the computer (garden, dog walk/car boot sale, cinema) I knew there was no hurry, but last time this happened it was mid-evening before I found out what we were supposed to do. Last time I already had a story (a twisted fairy tale called ‘Her version of events’ – http://wp.me/p18Ztn-9e) which fitted, although I had written another one anyway, but I couldn’t be sure this would happen twice so I decided that I’d pick one of my http://twitter.com/sentencestarts, thought of a random number… 336 “Please don’t exaggerate Simon.” but then looked at 1,336 ‘As you rattle the charity tin…’, and decided to go with the latter as I haven’t written a second person viewpoint story yet this month, but had a sneaking suspicion that having planted the seed in my brain, that I may well return to Simon.

As you rattle the charity tin, you sense something non-metal; a button you reckon.

Then a man walks up to you with a coloured piece of paper in his hand, an off-red but it’s small so you can’t quite see. He opens it then re-folds it into a sliver, small enough for the slot on the top of your tin. He does it slowly, not to show off but out of reverence, but it lets you see what it is. A fifty pound note. He doesn’t particularly look as if he can afford it but he gives it willingly, as if it recompenses for something he’s earned, something non-monetary, something sacred.

“Thank you,” you beam, hoping to catch his glance which is still staring at the tin. It reminds you of the scene out of Ghost where Whoopi Goldberg unwillingly gives some nuns a huge cheque (money that isn’t hers) only this chap isn’t unwilling, just deep in thought. You look either side of him and smile in case there’s a female Patrick Swayze encouraging him to part with his hard-earned money.

The man just nods, turns and leaves and you imagine his ‘ghost’ walking beside him, telling him he’s done the right thing, that the money is better off in there, the exact words you’re failing to recall. Only this isn’t four million dollars. But, you guess, to some it may as well be. To those it’s going to, that’s exactly what it is.

The tin’s getting full and you’re not overly comfortable having a note of that value in it, so you walk to your fellow volunteer Angie, a few shops down, and tell her you’re going to pop back to HQ for an empty tin. It’s a 5-minute drive so you know she won’t be alone for long.

As you pull up, you spot Simon, the only paid member of staff, walking into the building. You catch up with him as he heads for the office and you swap “hello”s.

He puts his container on the desk and empties it out. You watch the coins roll into a controlled heap and a couple of notes flutter; a blue fiver, a brown ten. You’re not one to score points but you know you’ve done better.

Holding out your container, you ask, “Can I swap this for an empty one please?”

“I’m sorry, they’re all out,” he says. “You could have mine but I’m heading back. I can empty yours quickly.”

“Sure,” you say and he uses his scissors to remove the cable ties holding the lid in place. He smiles as your coins pile out next to his, and they remind you of the Henry Mountains that one time you went to the States.

“Oh look,” he says, pulling at the fifty pound note. “It’s a cheque.”

“Oh, really?” you say as he unfolds it, “I could have sworn… oh well.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s a cheque for…”

“Yes?” you ask, hoping for a figure near the fifty.

“Two million, four hundred and seventy five thousand pounds.”

“Please don’t exaggerate Simon,” you say but he smiles and holds out his hand. What you thought was a £50 note really is a cheque. A very pretty off-red cheque from The Patrick Swayze Foundation, UK Fund. A cheque worth, doing a quick calculation in your head, about four million dollars.

So Simon got a mention after all. Time now to do some gardening.

Update: the gardening got done, the dog was walked twice, we went to a car boot sale and somewhere in between today’s prompt appeared: to take a rest from writing but to exercise. All in all I think I achieved that too.

 

A Story a Day May: May 14th – Norman the Conqueror

Although we were guided to write about a feisty grandmother, I’ve gone with a grandfather because, although this story is completely fictional, I only ever knew one grandparent; my mum’s father, and thought I’d have more fun with a man… if you see what I mean.

“Grandpa will be here soon, are you ready?”

I nod. ‘Doesn’t it look obvious?’ I think. Jacket on, bag in my hand. But then that’s my mum all over. Treating me as if I’m two, which I’m not. Old enough to make my own decisions, get myself ready.

“OK well,” she continues, “are you sure you’re going to be warm enough?’

With two layers bottom half, four top half this is a… to use one of my dad’s phrases ‘a redundant question’.

I nod again. The only question left is “are you eating enough?” She says that to Nick, my older, freer, university-living brother.

“And make sure you eat enough.”

There we go. I’ve officially been ‘Nick’ed.

“He hasn’t said where he’s taking you.”

She’s still talking. I’m Lizzie by the way. English as English can be. That’s our family. Elizabeth, me, named after the Queen and my dad’s mother… or probably more likely my dad’s mother then the Queen. I’ve never asked. I don’t have any relatives called Nicholas so that must just be a name they both like. Mum did say they picked things that could be shortened but still sound OK. Nothing to be laughed at. I’m not laughing.

Mum is Sarah, Dad is Christopher and Gramps (or ‘Grandpa’ as mum always calls him when I’m around) is Norman. Mum says he was named after Norman the Conqueror but we’ve done him in history and as far as I know, our Norman has never conquered anything – made an impression definitely. He can’t fail to do that.

Gramps takes me out every Saturday when Dad’s working. I see him other times of course but our Saturdays are… ours. Just the two of us. And the most fun I have all week. All fortnight. He comes over for tea twice a week and he’s a different person. Mum’s dad. Normal, still funny but quieter. Fits his conversations in with everyone else’s. Keeps quiet when there’s nothing to say. But on our Saturdays he’s who I think he really wants to be – who he is.

“He’s here!” Mum shouts, and I fly out the door, slamming it behind me. I catch “And don’t slam…” and smile, looping my bag over my head.

I’d forgotten about Gramps’ new car; a bright red convertible Ford Ka, like Wayne Rooney’s. This is my second trip in it and I imagine mum behind the curtains tutting and saying “why he has something like that I don’t know. It’s so impractical. You can only fit two people in it. And the colour… He’s acting like someone half his age…”

And that’s what I love about him. My parents act older and I don’t want to get to their age without acting like mine. OK, so backwards baseball cap is going a bit far. He only puts that on when we’ve left the street so there’s no chance that mum can see him.

And he wears jeans. Not even mum wears jeans. Not sure why, I’ve never asked her that either. I take after my dad more really, but he’s at work all the time and really I’m closest to Gramps. He’s the one who gets me. Nick sort of does but he’s never here either. When he comes home he’s out with his non-uni mates. And he’s popular so he’s always out.

Gramps starts the conversation with school. Takes an interest in what I’m doing so I tell him about Kelly and Tony but then he talks about my schoolwork and figure that mum’s asked him to say something. She’s worried about me, he says, but she doesn’t need to be. I do alright. Nick’s always been the bright one. I’ll catch up.

He never tells me where we’re going. We’ve done allsorts. Started off with the normal things; Gulliver’s Land, Whipsnade Zoo, Willen Lakes, but then it got a bit more adventurous. More fun. Instead of walking round the lake or having a picnic by it, we went surfing on it, water skiing. Can’t do that now; it’s all frozen over, not safe. Too cold to go somewhere outdoors. On the ground of course, Gramps is afraid of heights.

I think we’re going to the cinema or maybe go-karting – we did that last time but he knows I don’t mind doing things twice, like mum’s casserole on a Wednesday. We all know it’s leftovers but it tastes fab anyway.

We’re driving further than we normally do, and in the opposite direction; north… and fast. Easy Gramps.

But he’s laughing and he has such a funny laugh. It makes me laugh.

He takes off his baseball cap and I see a bald patch. He’s got more hair than Dad and more grey. White actually. “Distinguished” Mavis says. She lives next door and I think she’s got a soft sport for him. I’m pretty sure I see her curtains move too when he drops me off. I should get him to stay, or invite her to supper in the week. I think they’d get on. But on a Saturday he dashes off, says he’s got things to do. Well, it’s the weekend, people are busy at the weekend, aren’t they?

“M6 Gramps?”

“Yes Lizzie but not far. One junction, Rugby.”

I can’t think of anything to do at Rugby. Dad took us shopping once.

“Are we going shopping?” I say, disappointed.

“Just wait and see.”

Mum says that when I’ve got something right that’s supposed to be a surprise. Otherwise she says ‘no’.

I haven’t brought much money with me. Mum usually gives me a little but forgot today. I don’t like to ask as I know we don’t have much. I hear my parents talking about it. I think the university’s expensive. More than Nick thinks. Dad gave him a summer job last year but it’s still Dad’s money isn’t it? He’s got a factory making paper but it’s not the sort of paper Nick can use at college or me at school so that doesn’t help.

Gramps leaves the motorway and turns right, away from Rugby. Now I’m really confused. It’s signposted Blaby which I think is a village so we can’t be going shopping. It’s not long before we turn right again and as I see a line of old planes ahead of us, it twigs what we’re doing. He’s always loved Messerschmitts and Spitfires so we’ve come to watch them, and I’m thrilled.

It’s a bit cold for standing outside but maybe there’s a room with a glass window where we can watch them from. We’ve seen them on TV. They’re so graceful, like birds. We’ve been bird watching too, that was fun. Not as boring as you’d think. Gramps knows a lot of people so we had an expert tell us what was going on – nothing like the TV. So much more when it’s real.

A man about Gramps’ age greets us as we park the car. He introduces himself as Eric and invites us up to his ‘office’, a glass room on top of the red brick building.

He asks us if we’d like a drink and Gramps asks for two teas, strong as Jack Russell. Eric laughs and I can’t tell whether he knows that Gramps means his favourite cricketer not the dog.

One of Eric’s colleagues makes the drinks while we sit on two old leather chairs. I love the smell so breathe in as hard as I can.

“You’re not getting a cold, are you?” Gramps asks.

“No,” I say and point to the chair.

He smiles and explains it to Eric who says, “Why do you think I wear one of these?” pointing to his old sheepskin-lined flying jacket. I hadn’t really wondered, but OK.

I’d drunk my tea slower than Gramps but he’s always had a… what is it my mum…? Oh yes, cast-iron constitution.

Gramps and Eric are chatting away so I don’t feel in a hurry anyway and I can’t see any planes doing anything.

I’ve just finished my tea when Eric turns to me. “OK miss, are you ready to go?”

“Already?” I ask.

“Well, if you’re fit.”

“Um, I think so,” I reply. I do netball and I swim for the school but I’m not sure how fit he needs me to be to walk back to the car. He can see I’m disappointed and turns to Gramps. “You’ve not told her, have you?”

Gramps smiles.

Eric looks back at me, steps forward and reaches out to take one of my hands. “Come with me young lady.”

I look at Gramps and he winks, so I hold out my right hand which Eric takes and leads me back down the stairs.

Down the stairs and not back towards the car but towards the big metal sheds. I turn back and look at Gramps who catches up and holds my other hand.

As we walk into the first building I see the most beautiful thing. It reminds me of the noughts and crosses board that Gramps and I often play, only this one is bright red and white.

“It’s a Tiger Moth,” Gramps says, letting go of my hand. Eric does the same.

I stare up at him. “Am I…?”

He nods.

I clap my hands then throw my arms around him.

“Would you like to go first or second?” Eric asks.

I turn round to him, puzzled. “Before or after who?”

He laughs. “Your grandfather.”

I look back at Gramps and say, “But you’re afraid…”.

He gulps, smiles a little, then bursts into giggles.

Then I realise that he is Norman the Conqueror after all.

This would have been posted much earlier in the evening but I made the mistake of having the Eurovision contest on. On reflection (as some on Twitter said), I could have just watched the summary at the end but the standard was unusually high this year and it was an evening’s entertainment. And the good thing about having a late night is that the next prompt will be online all that much sooner.

 

A Story a Day May: May 13th – ‘Whatever you say’

Another prompt that initially stumped me. I can use my mouth (er, maybe I should rephrase that). I can talk a lot, but as I’ve said before I’m no poet and the first thing that struck me about today’s prompt of ‘to write a story that uses descriptive words that make your mouth move’, along with 11 examples (I’ve listed them after the story if you want to know in advance) was that it should be poetic. Whilst I didn’t write a poem, I thought I’d take Julie literally and use them all in a short story. This is an exercise that I often set my Monday nighters but usually with only four words. This was just as much fun.

“Get up, Chuck!”

Charles squirmed in his lumpy old bed, lifted the duvet and looked at the stomach that, despite being flat, Sam, his older sister, called ‘blubber’. It duly rumbled.

“Now, Chuck!” Sam added.

“Alright!” Charles hollered, before oozing out of his bed and on to the floor. He sat there for a few seconds, back against the mattress, then took a deep breath and stood up, all six foot four of him.

Throwing on an already-worn t-shirt, slung over the corner of an open wardrobe door, he slipped into his jeans then plodded downstairs, rifling through his ruffled dark-blond hair.

His younger sister Rosie greeted him at the bottom of the stairs, holding out both hands proudly. “It’s a squirm!” she announced.

“No, dear,” their mother Deirdre said, walking past, holding a mug of sludge-like tea, and heading for the dining room. “It’s a worm.”

Charles grimaced, Rosie grinned.

“Squelch!” Rosie beamed. Charles frowned.

“She’s learning all the S.Q. words,” Sam explained, heading in the same direction as Deirdre, and holding an equally unappetising mug.

As the words flowed from Rosie’s mouth, Charles followed her into the kitchen where she put the worm down on to the counter and, with still-muddy hands, poured herself some cereal.

When she’d finished, Charles took the box from her, poured some for him then milk for both of them, sat on a high stool, and switched on the TV hoping for something stimulating. He wasn’t disappointed. The news told of the local politician’s latest blunder, the final day of the Hartleyford Flower Festival, showing its frisson of colour, and the regional weather.

“Stormy, just how I like it,” Charles said.

Beside him, Rosie clapped. “Squormy!”

“No Rosie, stormy.”

Rosie then ran to the back door.

“It’s raining,” Charles warned, but then realised she wasn’t heading outside.

She slumped to the floor, sprawled as flat as a DIY bookshelf, then squealed as she stared at a face peering back at her through the cat flap. “Hello Mr Squirrel,” she chirped. The rodent chirped back. “Charlie! Mr Squirrel said ‘hello’!”

“Really.”

“Squirrel!” Rosie shouted, scaring the animal away.

“Yeah, Rosie, whatever you say.”

 

If you didn’t look beforehand, the 11 we were given were: squirm, upchuck (OK, I cheated with this one), sludge, blunder, squelch, lumpy, frisson (which I’d figured was going to be the hardest but, again I used artistic licence), blubber, rumble, ooze and flow. I didn’t stick to the order (that would have been hard but I don’t think we had to) but I like the result. More please Julie.

 

A Story a Day May: May 12th – The Threadbare Girl

Initially I wasn’t sure about today’s prompt of ‘reunion’ but then I realised it was perfect for continuing the May 11^th (part one) story. If you’ve not read that (http://wp.me/p18Ztn-9b) then this may make more sense if you do. Thank you.

“Good God, Ted!” The woman in the black trouser suit looked up at her colleague.

“You only need to look at her, Amanda, to know she’s freezing,” the older man added, scanning the room. The only contents were a toilet, bath and cot, too small for a child her age. “Where’s she been sleeping?”

“I’m not sure she has,” Amanda replied.

Knowing how long the girl had been missing, Amanda battled with what to say to her. She wasn’t trained for this situation.

As if reading her mind, Ted crouched beside her.

The girl flinched.

“It’s OK love,” Ted whispered, stood up slowly and backed away.

Amanda looked at her. Her clothes, too thin for the time of year, were however in good condition; unlike the threadbare girl and the room she’d been kept in. “Charlie, you’re going to be fine. You’re safe now.” She knew that was the best thing to say. No point in asking her if she was alright. Even the strongest person in her position wouldn’t be alright. And she looked as thin as a wafer and just as fragile.

“Where is he?” Charlie mouthed.

Amanda looked at Ted. He shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t know,” she answered honestly.

Charlie’s eyes widened.

“It’s OK, Charlie, we have someone outside watching,” Amanda lied.

Ted looked at his watch. “We should be quick.”

Charlie yelped.

“It’s OK,” Amanda repeated. “Take your time.” She removed her jacket and went to put it round Charlie’s shoulders but she recoiled. “Please,” Amanda said softly. “You’re cold. Too cold. This will make you feel better.”

Those were words Charlie had heard before, many times. After HE had been with her, he’d given her some hot chocolate and told her everything would be fine, HE’d make her feel better.

She frowned, she did feel a little better; that it wasn’t HIM, but she didn’t know THEM either.

“Your parents sent us to find you, Charlie,” Ted said. “They’re worried about you. They want you home.”

Charlie shook her head. HE had said that. That they’d sent HIM to collect her from school. But he hadn’t known her name. They knew her name. Her real name. She’d told HIM to call her Olivia, her sister. He’d said it was a beautiful name and he’d been happy. But then HE found out her real name and got angry. Beat her. But that was a long time ago and there was nothing to prove that now. No scars on the outside.

She closed her eyes and nodded. At least she’d be with a woman. And women didn’t do bad things to little girls.

“OK, let’s go,” Ted said gently.

Amanda put her jacket around Charlie, it swamping her, then placed her left arm around her shoulders, and escorted her out of the cellar, following Ted up the stairs, past the door with the squeaky hinges, into a kitchen that Charlie had never seen.

She yelped again as the sunlight hit her eyes.

“Got your sunglasses on you, Amanda?” Ted asked.

Amanda went to dip into her handbag.

“No, please,” Charlie begged, releasing Amanda’s grip. “I want to see it, to see it all. Where HE lives, where I’ve been living for… how long have I…?”

“We’ll talk about that later, Charlie,” Ted interrupted. “We just need to get you…”

Charlie stopped walking. Stared at the hall they were now standing in. Then back at the kitchen. Immaculate. It was all perfect. Her grandfather had called her ‘immaculate’. Miss Perfection. Then told her how her parents had waited so long to have her. Her and Olivia. The other half of her egg. That had made her laugh. She’d wanted to have eggs for breakfast for the rest of the week. Share them with Olivia. To make up for stealing her half before she was born.

She had her back to the front door when they heard the key.

Amanda grabbed Charlie’s hand and pulled her behind her, behind the front door as it opened, leaving the two men to stare at each other.

Ted instinctively went for the inside of his jacket, for the gun that hadn’t lain there for over 10 years.

John’s eyes followed Ted’s hand and he launched his bags of shopping at Ted, one of them knocking him off balance.

Charlie screamed and John swung round. “Olivia! What are you doing?”

Amanda, still obscuring most of Charlie, looked over at Ted who nodded.

“John,” Amanda said calmly, “Charlie needs to come with us.”

“That’s not Charlie!” he hissed. “She’s Olivia.”

“OK John,” she said, knowing that not to be the case. “You need to let Olivia go and let her come with us.”

“Never!” he snarled. “She’s mine!”

With John distracted, Ted crept up behind him until a floorboard in the 1930’s house gave him away and John twisted back round so the men’s faces were now inches apart.

Charlie tugged on Amanda’s hand and took off the suit jacket. Remembering what he had done to her to get her here, Charlie whispered in Amanda’s ear. With the two men not moving, she knew she had little time. She took the jacket Charlie offered and holding one shoulder in each fist, lunged at John throwing the jacket over his head, pressing down as hard as she could.

Watching John drop to his knees, Ted then pounced on him, bearing down on him while Amanda retrieved the mobile phone from her handbag.

“Yes, hello. Police please, and ambulance. Yes, it’s an emergency. We’ve found Charlotte Canning. The little girl from… yes. Please hurry. Yes, Amanda Scizzari and Ted Brooks from… yes… we were hired by… OK, thank you. We do. We will. She is, yes. Thank you.”

Charlie shivered as she leant against the radiator watching the two private detectives restrain the man she’d known as ‘John’, the man who’d been her father figure for the past three years, the ‘best friend’ in Olivia’s absence, who’d made her hot chocolate not quite like her mother used to make it.

As the radiator kicked into life, she remembered what it felt like, to feel it as well as hear it, feel the warmth she’d been missing, inside and out.

This is a hurried story (darn you full time job) but I think it has potential. ‘A work in progress’, as the saying goes. I’m calling it a night now as I could have read through it again but with half an hour before I turn into a pumpkin (or something less edible…mmm, pumpkin soup) I bid you a good night.

 

A Story a Day May: May 11th – part two (re-write a fairy tale)

I’ve just posted the story I wrote for today (as part one) but as it doesn’t fit the prompt and I had one from a while back that did, I thought I’d share that too…

Her version of events

Inspector Robert Southey stared gravely into the little blonde girl’s eyes. She finally crumpled and burst into tears.

Between sobs she said, “how… was I… supposed to know… that I wasn’t to eat the porridge? There wasn’t anyone there. It was going cold. I… it just looked so yummy and I didn’t want it to go to waste. I hardly touched the two big bowls. One was too hot and the other one was too cold, and… and…”

The policeman scribbled in his notebook then looked back at the child. “And what did you do next?” he asked in his deep Cumbrian accent.

The girl took a deep breath, sinking slightly in her seat. “Well, I’d been walking in the woods for ages before I saw the house… and was tired… and so I went to sit down. The first two chairs weren’t comfy at all but the third one was perfect. It was soft and just the right size…” she paused, “but then it broke. It wasn’t my fault, honestly it wasn’t. Well, I didn’t mean…”

“Mmm,” the Inspector said, jotting down her words as they tumbled out, “and then?”

“Well, then I got really sleepy. I tried the beds but it was same thing; one was too hard, the other too soft but the third was perfect and before I knew it, I had drifted off. I must have been asleep for a while when I heard a lot of noise downstairs. Then a few seconds later, it sounded like a herd of elephants coming up the stairs, only it was a herd of bears.”

“Sleuth”, the Inspector interrupted, laughing at the irony of the word.

“Sorry?” the little girl looked up at him with piercing green eyes.

“A collection of bears is a sleuth, or sloth. Never mind. You were saying…”

“The little baby bear… and his mummy looked friendly but the big bear, the daddy, looked really angry so I jumped out of the bed, ran down the stairs and out of the front door. It was open, just as it had been when I got there. That’s when I bumped into the other policeman.”

Almost on cue, Inspector Southey’s colleague, Sergeant Keswick, who’d been in the next room taking statements from the witnesses, entered the room. The two men whispered to each other then turned to the girl.

The Inspector stepped forward to the table where she was sitting. “OK, Goldilocks. You’re free to go, but count this as a warning. We do not take theft or criminal damage lightly. And you’re lucky that you’re not facing breaking and entering charges.” At the last statement, Goldilocks looked horrified.

The Inspector continued. “I know. The door was open. But that doesn’t give you the right to walk in and help yourself.” He looked at his colleague, nodded, then continued. “If you trouble the Edwards again, they’ll undoubtedly want to press charges. They will, however, be sending you a bill for the broken chair.”

“Thank you, sir,” the girl said with a half-hearted smile, wiping away her tears with her sleeve as she left the room. Walking home, she wondered how she was going to tell her parents and how many chores she’d have to do to pay for the chair.

I wrote that story back in February 2009 and I remember it being fun to do. It just goes so show you that you don’t need to think of something original to be… well, original.

 

A Story a Day May: May 11th – part one (I’m particularly proud of this)

I woke up this morning eagerly looking forward to today’s prompt but alas, none was forthcoming. And as Julie D is based in the US I figured she’d be asleep so I decided to crack on with my day and see what awaited me when I got home. When I returned at 5pm there was still nothing so I decided to write something else and came up with this…

It’s the two clocks she finds the most comforting. Both beat a different tune, started with batteries within a few seconds of each other. Alternating like an analogue tennis match.

Of course she doesn’t need two, being such a small room but she’s not going anywhere so really she doesn’t even need one. But they keep her company. The only noise in her existence. Except for people going to work, then home. Car doors, house doors, the shouting in between.

There’s no-one for her to shout at. About. Not that she would anyway. She’s too calm for that.

She only knows the seasons by the temperature of the room. With her body heat 24 hours a day, that’s not even accurate, but the radiators kick in around the house so it follows suit.

It’s the sun she misses the most. She sees chinks of it but it’s not the same. She can’t see the whole; her favourite fruit, high up in the sky. Burning into the skins of those allowed out. Playing, talking, oblivious to the freedom they take for granted.

She’s brought food every now and then, when he remembers. Sober enough to recall he’s not alone.

For the first few weeks she thought she’d be rescued, familiar hands picking her up, arms wrapping round her like Christmas paper, but the stranger’s arms have become familiar.

Sometimes she sits in the empty old bath, it cools her after he’s been. She needs it sometimes more than others, depending on what he’s expected of her.

She’s thought about drowning, but water’s a friend and a friend wouldn’t do that to her. He tells her they’re friends, special friends, and she smiles so he believes it. He’s nicer to her when she smiles so it’s an expression she’s learned to wear, glued in place as soon as she hears footsteps.

He’s told her his name is John but she doesn’t think it’s real. None of it is. It’s a three-year-long dream that loving hands will wake her up from.

He buys her clothes, always a size too small like he wants her to stay a child, as does she. “They grow up so fast,” her grandfather had said and when she sees him again she wants to be exactly the same. The tomboy who wouldn’t be seen dead in pink, but wonders if she will be.

Everything about the room is childlike, like it was bought with her in mind; pretty pictures, toys to play with only they’ve never been touched. She wishes she were a toy.

Her smile snaps in place as the stairs creak. She hears the bolt and the door hinges complain. She’d tried that once.

Her smile remains as the arms reach out to her. She’s frozen to the spot, near the bath, in her pink and purple cotton summer dress.

The hands recoil as they touch her skin as if electrocuted by the cold.

I’d just come back from a dog walk, during which I’d finished writing this story (by hand, obviously), when I refreshed the http://storyaday.org website and got today’s prompt; to re-write a fairy tale. This story didn’t fit, as was likely to be the case, but I do have a story (an old homework project) that does so I’ve posted this as part one with the fairy tale as part two. I hope you enjoy them (if that’s the right word) and, as always, feedback welcome.

 

Poetry homework – ‘Old before my time’ (critique welcomed)

It dawned on me this morning that I’m off to Northampton Writers’ Group tomorrow night and need a poem to read out. OK so I have plenty of old ones but that’s what they are; old and I’ve probably read most of them already. So I needed something new and in the absence of today’s Story A Day prompt (which will probably inspire prose anyway), I came up with this while… well, you’ll soon see where. And it’s as I’ve written it (a 20-minute gush) so feel free to give (constructive) critique. I may well pull it apart before tomorrow night anyway… or do something else.

Old before my time

Knees crack, crouching down

dog wanders, I find a bag.

Scoop… hold my breath

and we’re away.

His mission lampposts

mine to write.

My brain is empty

he doesn’t care,

doesn’t notice

as my brow furrows.

Curse creative crippling

as the blank page stares.

Flick the notebook:

all the same…

page after page

of brain-like space.

Homework, housework

which to do first.

Neither inspires

but I take my pick.

I plug the hoover,

press the switch.

It roars into life

as I bend down

but my back bristles

and my foot hits the off.

Back to the blank

and I stare into space

wishing on the wind

for time and place.

Right, I’m off to do my Red Cross duties then back here later to check for the http:storyaday.org prompt (unless I’ve succumbed to Tweet Deck whilst I’m out) so I can start my story then take another look at the above poem and shake my head.

 

A Story a Day May: May 10th – ‘a broken dart / of moonlight – splintered on the sea’

I was so hoping for an easy prompt today (it’s a line in an Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnet ‘The Harp Weavers’, by the way) with a full day at work and a lovely long audio conversation with poet Chris Ringrose to edit but my first thought was ‘urgh’ (or thereabouts). Unlike Chris, I’m no poet so I had a feeling I wouldn’t write one and I wasn’t wrong. Thankfully though, like many of these prompts, it provoked an immediate scene (haven’t a clue where from) and I got typing (which I shouldn’t have done as it left me pushed to get to work on time, but did some more in my lunch break then walking home/the dog).

Edna took a deep breath. “A broken dart of moonlight – splintered on the sea…”

Frankie laughed, spluttering into his tea.

“What’s wrong with that?” Edna replied, voice barely a whisper.

“Prose of the deepest hue.”

“Sorry?”

“Purple prose. It’s a phrase we use in class when something’s over dramatic, too… how do I put this delicately? Flowery.”

“You couldn’t be delicate if you tried, Frankie.” Ben piped up from the back of the staff room.

Sonya, who’d been making her and Edna’s teas, resisted the urge to defend Edna, glad that Ben had come to the rescue, as he so often did.

“Give her a break,” Ben continued. “She’s not trying to write Shakespeare.”

“Just as well,” Frankie replied, “I didn’t like his stuff the first time round.”

“And you call yourself an English teacher?”

“No,” Frankie laughed, “that’s what Vera Harkett calls me.”

Right on cue, the Headmistress walked into the room.

Edna and Ben stood up. Sonya looked in their direction, still wondering why Vera provoked that reaction. They weren’t students. Respect, yes, but it bordered on… she wasn’t sure. Fright? No, too… dramatic. But it wasn’t reverence. In the three months she’d been there no-one had explained to her why Vera was such a force to be reckoned with. She’d been nothing but sweet to her. Two sides of a coin, Sonya guessed. Sweet to the new ones, something quite different to those accustomed. Sonya absentmindedly dropped the teaspoon onto the draining board which turned the room’s attention to her.

“Morning everyone… Sonya,” Vera said. “Edna, Frankie, can I have a word please.”

The two teachers looked at each other.

Vera looked at the sink. “You can bring your teas with you.”

Silently, Sonya handed one of the mugs to Edna, who smiled then followed Frankie and Vera to the Head’s Office.

“Sit down please,” Vera said, more of an order than request.

They did as they were told, waiting for her to speak, or at least sit. She did neither.

Frankie opened his mouth but shut it again.

“Right,” Vera said finally. “You’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here.”

Edna and Frankie looked at each other as if ‘ask’ had anything to do with it. Frankie recognised the phrasing from somewhere but couldn’t place it.

“It’s come to my attention,” Vera continued.

Uh oh, Edna thought, this never ends well.

“It’s come to my attention,” Vera repeated, returning Frankie’s gaze which she could see was veering towards the window.

 “Yes, Vera, listening,” Frankie grinned.

Edna could only admire his cheek, knowing she’d never be so brave… or stupid.

“As I said,” Vera tried again. “It has come to my attention…”

Frankie gulped; three times wasn’t good.

“…that the English literature students aren’t performing as well as they could be.”

Edna stifled a smile at the not-so-subtle swipe in Frankie’s direction.

Vera waited for an answer. Frankie was not forthcoming.

“I’m sure that…,” Edna started but was stopped by Vera’s raised hand.

“Mr Smith?”

“Mrs Harkett.”

“Mr Smith,” Vera repeated, even more sternly. “You need to follow the syllabus in order for your students to do well in their exams. You’re going off…”

“At a tangent? On a day trip? Like old cheese?”

“Off the syllabus, Mr Smith,” Vera finished.

“Well, it’s all so stuffy. Dull, dull, dull. The kids don’t want to know about Paradise Lost or Homer, they want to know all about Paradise City and Homer Simpson.”

 “A Guns & Roses song and American cartoon…” Edna offered.

“I’m aware of The Simpsons,” Vera replied then turned to Edna. “But, thank you.”

Edna smiled.

Vera turned back to Frankie. “I think Edna here has more literature running through her veins than you’ve got alcohol, including the syllabus.”

“Hot dinners.” Frankie said, then frowned realising that didn’t make sense. But then nor did the syllabus.

“They’re bright children,” Vera continued.

Frankie, more than anyone, knew that. “Yes, Vera.”

“So where are things going wrong?”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Do I really need to be?” she paused. “OK, then. Grades. Let’s start there.”

“As good a place as any.”

“You’ve seen them, Frankie.”

“I have.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.” She paused again. “Well?”

“Bit of a cough actually, but thank you for…”

“I wasn’t asking. The grades, they need to be improved and quickly, and I’m sorry, Mr Smith…”

Frankie and Edna were pretty sure she wasn’t particularly.

“You won’t get the students where they need to be…”

“I could hire a minibus,” Frankie offered.

“That’s why I know you’ll be the perfect person.”

“But you just said…”

“Not for English literature, Mr Smith.” At that point she knew she’d lost them. “You know Norman Grey?”

“Grey by name…” Frankie started but then thought better of it. “Norman, yes.”

“I do too,” Edna piped up, wondering why she’d been invited.

“Yes, well, he’s retiring.”

At last, Frankie thought. “Really, so soon?” he said.

“So,” Vera continued, “We’ll need a replacement drama teacher and the school has no bigger drama qu… fan than you Frankie.”

“Really?” Frankie asked. “I thought you were going say…”

“Sack you?” Vera shook her head.

“Really?” Frankie asked, just to be sure.

“Absolutely. I’ve seen you with the children. They adore you. So do the staff, deep down. You just need to be doing something more… hands on.” Vera looked at Edna who blushed and looked at her lap.

Frankie turned to Edna. “Then I don’t quite understand why…”

“I want Edna here to take over your role.”

Edna looked as stunned as Frankie.

“She’s the obvious choice.” Vera confirmed.

“She is?”

“I am?”

“She knows her Shakespeare like the back of your hand.”

Frankie and Edna exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“It’s fine. Just keep it outside work. She’s a great Teaching Assistant, you could be a great teacher. You just need to be in the right place.”

And for the first time in a long time, Frankie knew exactly where that place should be.

So here we are a third of the way through the month already. I haven’t written this much in ages, not since the last NaNoWriMo in consecutive word count anyway, and like the last three November’s I wake up (and many other times before, during and after) and can’t wait to get cracking. And now, a certain audio file is calling my name… and Chris’.

 

A Story a Day May: May 9th – Clues from pictures of die (dice)

Looking at today’s prompt, I hadn’t a clue what to do. 9 die (dice) with 12 pictures (moon, shooting star, torch, clock, arrow (pointing south west), magnifying glass, eye/castle, fish/flower, bat/sheep) I immediately thought of fantasy or crime. With a (ridiculously) busy day ahead of me, I couldn’t think of a worse time to have something complicated but as it turned out on my schedule was a dog walk with a writing friend who offered me a character and her profession. The rest, as they say is history. Well, it’s not actually, it’s contemporary but…

Roxy clicks on the left mouse button dragging the ‘Table’ option to 3×13. She lets go and a chart appears before her. In the first row she types ‘Months’, ‘Signs’ and ‘Scenarios’. In the left column she slots in ‘January’ to ‘December’, the third she leaves blank then in the middle she types the names of the symbols sitting on the die in front of her, just as she see them, thrown at random: moon, shooting star, torch, clock, arrow (pointing south west), magnifying glass, eye, castle, fish, flower, bat and sheep.

Pausing at June, her month, she laughs and types ‘magnifying glass’. “Time to buy new glasses,” she says squinting at the screen.

With the second column full, she looks at the empty space next to ‘January’ and ‘moon’ then closes her eyes. Tilting back her head, she waits for inspiration. “Moon… circle.” ‘One aspect of your life will come full circle. Rather than thinking you’re working backwards, embrace it.’

February’s shooting star prompts her to type, ‘With determination you can achieve a lot. Grasp every opportunity with both hands however small it may seem at the time.’

Someone born in March could expect to ‘be a shining light in the life of someone who’s feeling low and needs their spirits lifting’. “Embrace, grasp, spirits lifting,” she says out loud, “I could do with someone to embrace and grasp me; that would definitely lift my spirits.”

April’s clock prompt advises its recipients to ‘use their time wisely’ whereas May’s arrow suggests that he or she should ‘consider taking an alternate path if they were unhappy with the choices they were making’. Skipping past June’s ‘new glasses’, Roxy settles on ‘keep an eye on your finances’ for July then ‘home improvements’ for August and ‘an exotic holiday perhaps travelling by sea’ for September. ‘Flower’ she finds quite easy, steering the October-born reader to ‘surprise a loved one with an impromptu gift such as flowers or chocolates’. ‘Bat’ and ‘sheep’ are initially more difficult but she finally settles on ‘try a new sport’ and ‘resist the temptation to follow the flock today, break away and do something daring’.

She copies and pastes the details into an email then doesn’t think anything more of it after she presses ‘send’ and imagines it winging its way across the ether to the magazine’s editor.

But the next day she remembers June’s prompt and thinks that it is actually time that she buys new glasses. So she rings her local branch to make an appointment and is told that someone has just cancelled and could she come straight in. Hesitant at how much money she could potentially be parting with, she agrees, grabs her coat and keys and walks to the town centre.

She thinks again about the descriptions she’s put in the horoscopes and wonders if she shouldn’t have been a bit more upbeat. Like a fortune teller. You’re not supposed to be doom and gloom but more tell people what they want to hear.

“Oh well, too late,” she says out loud pulling the heavy glass doors of the opticians.

“Oh dear,” a voice says behind her and Roxy turns round.

“Sorry?” she says, to the tall man looming over her.

“You say you’re late? They don’t like you being late here.”

“No, not late. I was referring to…” It’s then that Roxy spots his dog collar. She’s not sure what it is about vicars but they make her feel a little uneasy. Ever since she’d watched the Omen movies, churches had never felt the same.

They report their names to the reception and they’re pointed towards two green chairs.

“Sorry, my mistake,” he says to Roxy. “I shouldn’t eavesdrop. Dreadful habit. Got me into trouble before. You think I’d learn my lesson but listening is… well, hazard of the job I suppose.”

Roxy laughs then wonders if she should. He’s not God himself, she thinks. He’s human too. Then she notices that he’s fiddling with the collar as if it’s too tight. She raises her eyebrows and he looks down at his hand.

“I’ve been doing that for days. Like it doesn’t fit anymore.”

“It’s looks alright to me,” she lies, but then feels guilty. She’s never understood the relevance of the white strip of material but then no-one’s taken the time to explain it to her. He, on the other hand, looks the patient type; sitting next to an ill parishioner for hours on end, waiting for a confessioner to work through a list.

“I don’t normally,” he interrupts her thoughts, but I read my stars today. December. It said I should ‘leave the flock, break away and do something daring’’ and I don’t normally believe them but…”

That’s funny, she thinks, nor do I, but something tells me that maybe I should.

Mmm. Not sure about today’s. Although I wrote the first couple of paragraphs earlier in the day, the rest I wrote just the right side of midnight and clearly my brain wasn’t having any of it. Still, it’s a first draft and I could go somewhere with it. Or not. We shall see.

 

A Story a Day May: May 8th – A different perspective

My first thought when seeing today’s prompt was to pick John, the husband from yesterday’s story but didn’t think that would be particularly different so then thought back to the previous day’s, which also didn’t strike me as workable as it’s contained within one room. Then I knew the perfect person. If you’re reading this then could I suggest that if you’ve not read yesterday’s story (day 7), it might be helpful so this makes more sense. Or not. I think you’ll get the gist anyway. Either way, thank you for being here.

So she was there. Laura. I wish I’d looked harder now. If I’d known he hadn’t phoned her, sent a letter that hadn’t reached her I’d have found her, gone over, said something. Invited her to ours. Only I saw Emma and little Daisy from the ship and well, I couldn’t take my eyes off them and was just… well, oblivious to my surroundings. Which is not what we’re trained to do but you don’t expect to be looking for anyone else at something like that, do you? The crowd was just that… a crowd. Sure, I’d spotted other women I recognised but once I’d seen Emma, that was it. Focus. Honed in. Homed in.

Guilty? Yes, very. I should have looked for her. To tell her. But I didn’t know. And I know what you’re thinking; that it’s my fault he was out there. You’re not wrong. I said I could wait. That I’d got photos. Wouldn’t miss much, Daisy being so young and all, but Johnny insisted. He was like that. Said he wouldn’t miss much either, but I knew that wasn’t true. He’d been out there longer than me but he loved it. Loved her of course too, but work was his obsession. It’s the adrenalin. Unless you’re in a job like ours, you can’t understand.

He left before I woke up so I didn’t get to say “goodbye”. That’s the worst bit. I wanted to say “goodbye”, and “thank you”. Again. He said once was enough but I don’t think he knew how much it had meant to me. Means to me. OK, so he didn’t give his life for me, as such, but if he hadn’t of… No, I know. You can never tell. He could have had Plan A; seen her, returned out there and then… only they would have had that time, wouldn’t they? The time that Emma and I are having… well, will have. For a month anyway. Yeah, she’s scared. She always has been, will be, but doesn’t say anything. I can see it in her eyes though. The brown eyes that said “could have been you,” when I told her the news. Before Laura. I’m sorry for that too. A wife should always be the first person to find out. Nearer the top than someone she briefly met at a birthday party.

It was terrible, breaking the news. She knew it though, as soon as she opened the door. Invited Mick and I to come in but not to say anything. I couldn’t anyway. Done it before but it wasn’t the same. Had to leave it to Mick. He was more professional about the whole thing. Detached. Not really known Johnny. Not like I did.

I asked her if she wanted us to phone anyone but she shook her head. I don’t know who she has now but admin will sort that out. Help her. Send a woman to sit with her, give her someone experienced to talk with. They’re better at dealing with that kind of thing. Women. Except Emma, but then she’s bound to be emotional, with Daisy and that.

And Laura? Don’t know. She comes across as strong, independent. I think she’ll be fine… in time. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Time. You get used to waiting in our profession. Them here, us out there in a strange country that becomes familiar. They wait for us to come home, we wait at home to go back.

It’s deathly quiet wherever you are and if you get used to that, then that’s half the battle, isn’t it?

The brief was ‘Try to make the tone of the story totally different: the length of the sentences, the pacing, the rhythm, even the events, if the second person remembers them differently.’ Length = 602 vs 1,078. Tick. Not so sure about the pacing as it’s also slow, but it’s bound to be. And tone? Mmm, well I guess it’s reflective rather than suspicious. I’ll let you be the judges of that.

 

A Story a Day May: May 7th – A Military Couple

My heart sank when I read the prompt for today. I know nothing about the military. However, while out walking the dog, the first scene came to me and it rolled out (and, as is my way, down) from there.

Laura watches the ship leave. Silence. No waving hands, no kisses blown. The major’s words replay in her head. “He didn’t tell you?” He hadn’t. Out of character.

She pictures the box of his letters at the bottom of her wardrobe, at their home. The photos of him, comrades, even an ice cream van. She’d squinted at the face holding… no, offering the Flake 99. Offering it to him. Laura’s husband.

Laura’s never been the jealous type. Never needed to be. Until now.

It’s the woman’s brown eyes – like a puppy’s. John’s always been a sucker for those.

It had been her, Laura, who’d prevented them getting a dog. She loved them as much as he did but her sneezing just passing one in the street… he’d said it wouldn’t be fair. Every time she saw newspaper articles of sniffer dogs she’d smile, knowing they kept him company when she couldn’t. But now he has this woman keeping him company. Surrounded by deep brown eyes whose owners knew how to use them.

And now he’d made the choice. Home to her or stay with them. He’d written so freely, so lovingly that it had never dawned on Laura that there would be a choice. Could be. She’d stood with the other wives, waving, cheering. Except the other wives were holding hands with their children, until their husbands arrived and they let go, threw their arms around them. A group hug. A human parcel of flesh and blood.

She’d watched them one by one, group by group, get into their cars, drive back to their houses, safe within the confines of the barracks. A bricks and mortar group hug. To homemade food, parties, reunions. Only Laura’s still waiting for hers.

She doesn’t mind it getting dark. It’s the warmth she misses. A sunny early May day turned into a cold May night. She zips her jacket up to her chin and digs her hands into her pockets. She isn’t sure why she waits; she knows there won’t be another ship. Unlike busses they don’t come in threes. They come in ones and her one, his one, came and went hours ago.

She hears footsteps behind her and turns. A man in uniform and she nods.

“I’m sorry ma’am. I’m going to have to lock up now. Do you have a ride…?

She nods again and walks to her car. It’s still the one he bought her when they were first married but it drives well and she doesn’t want to change it. She doesn’t want anything to change.

The car stars first time and purrs like a kitten. The talked-about kitten that went the way of the dog. She drives the half hour to their detached red-brick house and pulls up to curtained windows with no lights behind.

Locking the car she walks up to the green metal postbox, finds the smallest key on the ring and opens the door. It squeaks as she pulls it and she makes a mental note to locate some WD40. John would have noticed it before now and she’d never have known.

Picking out the solitary letter she recognises everything about it; the envelope, the writing, even the smell. She shuts the door and lets herself into the house.

Putting a pre-prepared casserole-for-two into the oven, she sits at the kitchen table and stares at the letter. She has twenty minutes to decide what to do. She can wait while she eats but she doesn’t want to spill anything on it. She thinks about the dinner and what she’s to do with the other half. There’s no dog to feed it to. Once it’s cooked it can’t be re-frozen so decides it’ll keep in the fridge until it’s binned or eaten. She knows it won’t taste the same; eating alone never does. Conversations turn to silence as she has nothing to share.

The timer pings as the doorbell goes and she stares at one then the other. The dinner, too hot, can wait a while but with no-one else it can be, she knows the other choice can’t.

She runs to the door. He’s changed his mind. Only when she opens the door there’s not one man to greet her but two. One takes his hat off, followed by the other. One goes to speak but can’t find the words. She knows him, from John’s 30th. Andy, she thinks his name his. She recognises the other from earlier in the day and feels sorry for him, that he’s had to leave his family so soon after getting home.

She knows why they’re there so she doesn’t need them to say anything. She knows she doesn’t want them to speak but that they inevitably will.

“Wait,” she says and the men look at each other. “Please come in and wait. Don’t say anything. I need to do something first.”

The men do as she asks, wiping their feet on the mat, although they all know there’s not a speck of dirt to be found. They stand, caps under their arms, a gentle pressure that ensures no dents. They watch her walk into the kitchen, slowly as if stopping time. The men smell the food and Andy licks his lips then bows his head, thinking himself disrespectful.

She sits at the table, holds the envelope in both hands then turns it over and opens it, pulling out the cream matt paper.

‘My darling Laura. I have to keep this short as we’re about to go on manoeuvres but I know you’ll understand. Do you remember Andy from my birthday party? No, probably not. Too many faces, names. I’ll send a picture next time. His wife’s due to give birth shortly and he won’t be home in time. He didn’t ask. He wouldn’t, but I knew and… I’m sorry, really I am. I know you’re going to be disappointed but, you’d do the same. I know you would. Anyway, things out here are fine. We even have British ice cream. Not quite the taste I remember without you sharing, but it’s a little piece of home. A little piece of you. Take care my darling and I’ll be with you before you know it. Love always. John xx’

She stares at the kisses and pictures his face; smiling, laughing, no fear in his eyes. The eyes brown as a puppy’s.

She stands up, places the letter into her pocket and walks back into the hall.

Yep, I’d say my favourite so far. Thank you http://storyaday.org.

 

A Story a Day May: May 6th – “Do It Right Or Get Off The Horse”

Today’s prompt was to include this line somewhere in the story and strangely, this is the one I’ve been most excited about (and no, unlike http://jackmartinwesterns.webs.com, I don’t write westerns). Possibly though because a story, or at least the very beginning popped straight into my head.

“Do it right or get off the horse.”

Isobel burst into tears.

“Oh, Izzy. Don’t be such a cry baby.”

“Edward!” Sophie glared at her husband, picked their daughter off the rocking horse and carried her into one of the adjoining upstairs rooms of the rambling old house.

Edward followed without replying.

“You’re turning into your…” Sophie hesitated. “No, I’m not going to say it. They’re trying.”

“Yes, dear, sometimes.”

Sophie smiled, ice cracking.

“I’m just trying to instil into her that if you’re going to do something then you should do it 100% – no half measures.”

“But she’s only 18 months old.”

“Well, they say to start young.”

“I think that’s languages, Edward.”

His eyes lit up.

“No, Edward.”

“Decus et tutamen,” Edward said, walking towards Izzy who by then was sitting on an overgrown royal-blue sofa, playing with a toy giraffe. Looking up, she burst into tears again.

Edward looked over at his wife.

“It’s not my fault,” she said. “I guess you look too much like your brother.”

“Which one?… Oh, he scares her that much?”

“I think it’s his ears.”

Edward thought for a moment then put one of his fingers in the air. “Ah, ha!”

Sophie watched him leave the room. She waited. And waited. Finally, he returned with a mobile in one hand and catalogue in the other.

“Yes, hello. I’d like to order item number… 117342E please. Size? Oh. Erm, the largest you have please. Yes, certainly. Oh. Account number…”

Sophie watched him flick back to the inside front page.

“HRH001,” he laughed. “And how quickly do you… really? Yes, 15 minutes would be fantastic. You have the home address. OK, well, thank you. Goodbye.”

Turning to Isobel, he said, “Izzy. Daddy’s got a present for you.”

The little girl’s eyes widened followed by a toothy grin. Discarding the giraffe, she held out both hands, palms up.

Sophie laughed. “Daddy’s girl after all.”

Edward walked over to a large Queen Anne table, picked up a remote and zapped it at an impressive TV in one corner of the room.

At the sound of ‘In the Night Garden’ theme tune, Izzy squealed and turned her head round in an owl-like fashion. Sophie walked over to her and turned her body to face the TV.

Izzy looked up at her mother and chuckled. Sophie joined her family as the programme started.

A knock at the door soon distracted them and the girls watched as Edward walked towards a man in a smart black uniform as he brought in a huge brown cardboard box. Edward pointed at the floor by the sofa.

Izzy screamed and jumped down, lunging herself at the box.

“Would you like me open it for you, sir?” the man asked.

“Oh no,” Edward said a little too dramatically, turning to Izzy. “That would spoil all the fun wouldn’t it?”

Izzy nodded seriously.

The uniformed man bowed his head at Edward, who thanked him and the man left the room.

Edward picked Izzy up while Sophie pulled at the ends of the Hamley’s-picture parcel tape to loosen them, then sat on the sofa as Izzy, hovered over the box by Edward, did the rest.

As the strips came off, a gigantic grey and pink nose shot out of the top.

Izzy screamed and buried her head into Edward’s chest.

“It’s OK,” he soothed, and, with one hand, tucked the two cardboard lids over until they sat limply by the side of the box. He then turned Izzy to face the top so she could see what the nose was attached to. She immediately started giggling.

Sophie stood up and the three of them peered into the dark space.

“Oh, Edward,” Sophie laughed, “that’s hilarious.”

Edward then handed Izzy to Sophie and leant over the box to take the creature out of its cardboard enclosure. Izzy’s eyes watched his every move.

As its tail finally appeared, she squealed and held out her hands as Edward placed it on the floor and moved the box out the way.

Sophie sat her gently next to the beast and joined Edward on the sofa.

Izzy started with a hug, then flicked its tail, pretended to walk its feet along the priceless Egyptian rug, then clasped its trunk making a distinctly cow-like moo.

“Mr Elephant doesn’t moo, Izzy,” Edward said.

“Ellie,” Izzy replied.

“Yes, Izzy, he’s an elephant.”

Izzy shook her head.

Edward and Sophie nodded theirs.

“Ellie,” Izzy repeated. “Ellie… girl.”

“Oh,” Sophie said. “She’s a girl.”

“Like you Izzy,” Edward added.

Izzy nodded, then sighed, turned to look at the cardboard box, and stood up.

“It’s empty,” Edward said as Izzy started walking towards it.

“All gone,” Sophie confirmed.

Izzy craned her neck to try and see inside the box but wasn’t tall enough.

Sophie stood up, walked over to her and tipped the box on to one side so that the open top faced them. “See,” she said.

But Izzy wasn’t listening. She walked into the box, sat down and thrust out her arms.

“Brmmm,” she shouted. “Brmmm, brmmm.”

Sophie laughed and turned to Edward, who was frowning. “Buy her the most expensive toy on the planet,” she said, “and she turns a cardboard box into a car. Now that’s clever.”

It hadn’t planned to write about a royal couple but as I was about to write a man’s name I wanted it to start with an E (Eric: too old, Ernie: ditto… it had to be a formal name so Edward came… I’m a poet and I don’t even… no maybe not) then I needed a name for his wife and Sophie popped into my head. As soon as I’d written her name, I thought “oh no, I can’t have Sophie as they’re a royal couple but then, lightbulb moment, perfect! So they stayed and I carried on writing the story (while walking to/from work, during the latter trip I hardly noticed 27 ex-library books I was lugging home!). I hope you liked it (and I hope they don’t sue me, although their daughter is called ‘Louise’ so maybe they won’t think it’s about them). Decus et tutamen, by the way, is on the majority of the pound coins and means “An ornament and a safeguard” which is rather sweet. The ending was inspired by a British advert from many years ago where a father walks downstairs, camcorder in hand, filming his son opening his Christmas presents only to find that the boy is pretending to ‘drive’ a cardboard box. I can’t remember what the advert was selling (Google hasn’t helped there either), which, in theory, means it wasn’t doing it’s job properly, but I remember the scene well and for that I’m grateful.

 

A Story a Day May: May 5th – Party, Fiesta, Shindig or Gathering

Out of the five http://storyaday.org prompts so far, I wasn’t sure about this one, perhaps because it was in theory the easiest? So, me being me, I turned a positive into a negative and out of the five stories written so far, I think this is one of my favourites (not many to choose from I know, ask me again later in the month), written, in the main, in my lunchbreak.

Noreen didn’t really do parties. One thing she was though, was neighbourly and a party to welcome a new neighbour sounded as if it might be alright.

“Mexico? Where Evie lives? Does she speak English?”

“A little,” Noreen’s husband had assured her. “Sounds like fun, shame I’ll miss it.”

“You will?”

“Steve wants me in for a few hours.”

“Well, I can’t go on my own.”

“Why not? You’ll know everyone there. It’s just for the close.”

“But I don’t speak Mexican.”

“Spanish.”

“You know I’m not good with languages, Brian.”

“But you’re good with people, dear. Just speak slowly, clearly with lots of hand gestures and you’ll be fine. Practice for when your sister visits.”

“But that’s six months away and she’ll still be able to speak English.” Noreen paused. “She will, won’t she? Twelve years isn’t long enough to forget, is it?”

Brian shook his head so Noreen turned the conversation back to the party. “And they’ve given us no notice. I haven’t really got anything to wear.”

“How about your anniversary dress? That’s pretty.”

“But that’s just for us.”

“And the other diners in the restaurant.”

“I suppose so, but…”

“But?”

“Well…”

“You go, dear. You’ll have a great time. Think of me, stuck in front of a boring computer.”

“And what about food?”

“Just a sandwich will be fine. I can make it, while you…”

“No, I mean to take with me. Won’t they expect me…?”

“It’s normally bring a bottle but if you did want to…”

“There’s a Banoffee pie in the freezer.”

“Perfect. My favourite, but perfect.”

“I can find something else.”

Brian laughed. “You’re worrying about nothing. You’ll go, take the pie with you and I’ll end up coming to find you because you won’t want to come home. OK, maybe not. Well, you go and get changed while I make my sandwich. I’ll dig the pie out so it can be defrosting. Don’t be surprised if there’s a piece… it’s OK, I’m only joking, although if there is some left…”

“Then I’ll bring a piece home with me.”

“Deal.”

So Noreen went upstairs, put on her ‘anniversary’ dress; a delightful floor-length red number with intricate birds of paradise embroidered into the heavy silk. She walked into the kitchen just as Brian was putting his sandwich into a clear food bag. The pie lay, unboxed, on the work surface by the kettle.

“I can’t wear this,” Noreen said, just as he opened his mouth to speak.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful you look in that.”

“But it’s too much.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Oh, Brian.”

“You’ll be the belle of the ball, that’s for sure. Make an impression.”

He folded over the top of the bag, put it in his rucksack, walked over to his wife, took her hand, palm-down like an old-fashioned royal, and kissed it. “OK now?”

She nodded.

“Excellent. Well, I’m ready too so why don’t I walk you there?”

“Brian, it’s three doors down.”

“Well, we can’t have you looking like that with no escort, even if it is for five seconds. Besides, with the pie and a bottle of wine, how are you going to ring the bell?”

“I don’t think they have one.”

“Knock, then.”

“You do have a point.”

“Exactly. I’ll get the wine for you from the dining room. You get the pie, I’ve put it on a plate, and we’ll head off.”

“Are you sure I shouldn’t get changed?”

“No, love, you look lovely. A knockout.”

She blushed, a shade lighter than her dress.

Brian locked the door behind them and followed her to number 17. Noreen stepped to one side as she approached the front door so that he could knock for her. From the noise inside, it was evident that the party was already in full swing.

As Brian was about to knock, a grinning Roger opened the door. “Brian! Noreen! I’m so glad you could make it. Do come in and meet my guest.”

“Brian can’t stay, I’m afraid, Roger.” Noreen said. “He’s been called into work but…” She stopped talking as a tall, tanned svelte figure walked down the hall towards her. Brian, anticipating her reaction, took the bottle of wine and Banoffee pie from Noreen just before she screamed as her sister reached the doorway.

Taking something from real life, although I don’t have a neighbour called Roger, I do have a Mexican neighbour/friend called Evie. Oh, and Banoffee Pie’s my favourite too.

 

A Story a Day May: May 4th – May the Fourth Be With You

As I had anticipated (listening to Chris Evans say the same thing), today’s prompt was ‘May The Fourth Be With You’; a battle between good and evil – I’ve gone for something a little less obvious. I’m working later so thought I’d get a start on the story early and ended up writing the whole thing. Hoorah, an early night tonight.

 “Half a pound?” Sonya looked into Wendy’s eyes as the older woman wrote the figure on to Sonya’s card.

“Well, yes, but it’s half a pound off. You’ve not gained so there’s no dreaded circle on your card and you’re only four pounds away from another silver star.”

“But half a pound. I’ve been SO good this week.” To Sonya, shifting half a pound a week was as bad as not having lost anything. £4 to lose half a pound, not exactly fair.

“Don’t worry,” Wendy soothed. “Everyone has weeks like this. Be just as good this week and you’ll probably lose more next Monday night.”

So Sonya had. Everything with more than a reasonable amount of fat went; her favourite crisps, no takeaways or ready meals, just meat, vegetables and fish. She was positively glowing with pride by the end of the weekend.

“Nothing! Seriously? Nothing?”

Wendy shook her head. “I’m sorry Sonya but I’m sure next week…”

Sonya took her card back when offered and rejoined the group. She sat in silence while Wendy gave her talk then plodded back to her car, switching the radio off as she started the engine.

Walking into her hall, Buttons her tabby cat strolled over to greet her.

“Nothing tonight Buttons. Absolutely nothing!”

Buttons, taking it as a sign that he was on to a loser as far as food and affection was concerned, plodded back into the kitchen and out the cat flap, leaving Sonya to sit on the sofa and watch TV until she went to bed.

As she walked home from work the next day, she walked past, as she did every afternoon, Gregory’s Bakery. Sitting solitary in the window, a pack of four Chelsea buns called her name. Sonya decided that she’d be doing the shop a favour by buying them as they could close up and go home. So she handed over her £1.50 and carried the bagged buns reverently out of the shop and towards the park.

Sitting on a bench by the lake, she carefully removed the pack, folded the paper bag and tucked it into her handbag. “Waste not want not,” she said.

Pulling apart one of the sealed ends of the pack, she put her nose closely to the two buns nearest the opening and inhaled. Fruit and sugar. Sickly but heavenly.

She then stared at the four buns. “Well, I’m not going to eat you all.” So pulling the biggest of the front two out of the plastic wrapper, she started stripping it into small pieces and threw them, one by one, into the water causing a rugby-type avine scrum. Spotting a smaller bird missing out, she stood up, tucking the pack under her left arm and threw the remaining pieces of the first bun out to the bird who managed to devour some of it before being enveloped by its larger rivals.

With a smile of her face, Sonya turned round to walk back to the bench when one of the handlebars of a bicycle bumped into her left arm knocking the pack to the ground. The second bun flew out and landed on the grass by the bench.

“Watch out!” the cyclist yelled as he whizzed by.

All Sonya could do was growl at him as he disappeared into the distance.

“Never mind,” she said to herself. “Two left. Two more than I should have but it’s only Tuesday. I can work it off later. Walk faster. Go the long way home.”

So bun number two was ripped into shreds and went the same way as its predecessor.

Sitting down and facing the lake, she pulled out the third bun and was lifting it up to her mouth when she heard barking from her right. She loved dogs so turned round to see a particularly gorgeous-looking Jack Russell-cross heading in her direction. “Ahh…” she said, as it bounded towards her but then screamed as it leapt up at her, grabbing bun number three from her hand. “No!” she and the dog’s owner said in unison.

“Maisy!”

Sonya looked from her empty hand to a late-teenage girl who was now trying to prise the bun from the dog’s mouth.

“It’s O.K.” Sonya said mournfully. “Let her have it. It’s fine. I have another one.”

The girl let go of the now-soggy bun and the dog trotted off, head held high, before slumping to the ground, releasing the bun and eating it at her leisure.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl said. “I’d give you some money but I’m only here to walk the…”

“It’s fine, really. These things happen. I shouldn’t be so greedy and if she’s hungry then…”

“Well, not really. She’s just had her supper but ‘an ever open door’ as my mum says.”

Maisy then reappeared, licking her lips and nudged Sonya’s empty right hand.

“Was that nice?” she asked the dog. Maisy barked and walked back to the girl.

“Sorry, again,” the girl said before putting Maisy on her lead and walking her out the park.

Sonya looked down at the remaining bun. “At least I still have you. And only having you will taste all the sweeter.” She was then conscious of someone standing next to her; almost next to her, next to the bin to be precise, rooting through it. Staring at the dishevelled man in his sixties, Sonya looked back at bun number four.

“Are you hungry?” she asked the man. “Sorry, silly question.”

The man just stared back at her.

“Do you like…? Another silly question. Here…” Sonya offered him the final Chelsea bun.

With a whiter smile than Sonya had been expecting, the man took the bag, removed the bun from it and dropped the packet into the bin. Whispering a “thank you” before carefully unravelling the bun, he slowly put the first edge into his mouth and sighed, as if he could hardly remember the last time he’d tasted anything so good.

Sonya wanted to say something else to him but he turned and wandered off in the direction of the bandstand. Sonya then spotted another man, similar in stature but slightly older, sitting on one of the concrete steps. The man, with bun in hand, sat down next to him and peeled another edge from the bun, handing it to his friend who ate it just as reverently.

Sonya watched as the two men finished the bun and sat chatting. Wishing she had something else to offer them, she got up and walked home.

The following Monday, as she stepped on the scales, she thought “another half pound, half pound, half pound.”

“Four pounds! Well done, Sonya. Another silver star on your card.”

Sonya beamed as the other women in the queue clapped and she thought, ‘four pounds; one for each bun, and I don’t miss them at all.’

And this really happened to someone I know… well, two of the cakes anyway. And yes, the gorgeous Jack Russell-cross is mine.