Thursday, 30 January 2014

Thursday Threads You Have to Bring the Right Tool for the Kill

“I bought a little something for you,” Robert said, placing a small package on the table. “It’s only something little.” Sarah’s eyes brimmed with excitement at the beautiful silver paper secured tightly with purple ribbon. “Here, let me help,” he offered as the purple ribbon was being stubborn. He pulled out a penknife and with one snip, the purple ribbon fell away.”
“Were you a cub scout by any chance, always prepared?” Sarah joked as she pulled away the silver wrapping.
“You have to bring the right tools,” he said smiling.
An emerald green, silk scarf revealed itself beneath the silver. “It’s beautiful,” she gasped, gently picking it up and twirling it through her fingers. The soft, sheer material slipped through her fingers like water before she placed it around her neck, matching her eyes perfectly as they sparkled under her auburn fringe.
After only two weeks of dating and too many luxurious gifts to mention, Sarah was overwhelmed and knew he was a keeper. She kissed him, drunk on passion as well as wine, on their walk to the car park and Robert obliged. He stroked the green silk, loving the feel on his skin before taking both ends, pulling tight. For the second time that evening, she gasped as her lungs screamed. “I told you, you have to bring the right tool  . . . for the kill,” he whispered, staring into her bulging, lifeless eyes, before reclaiming the scarf as his trophy.


Monday, 27 January 2014

Monday Mixer Witchcraft

Being accused of witchcraft, the old woman stood before the orotund men, staring at three fat cats judging her; all furs, jewels and bulging waistlines.
      “Your comportment has roused suspicion you are a witch,” the largest man boomed, his face beetroot. “Look, there it is again,” he shouted, pointing at the old woman.
     “Ah, you mean my tic? That is not witchcraft, that is getting old.”
      “You  inveigled the poor farmer to part with his prize cow!”
      “I offered to look at his cow but she died so I couldn’t return her,” she shrugged. She knew it sounded terrible but it was true and no one could ever call her a liar, although people had tried. It was the one thing she hated more than anything, more than being called a witch. No one ever called her a liar twice.
    “”You are an inveterate liar! Nothing you say can be believed,” he huffed, puffing out his chest. The old woman sighed. It was all going so well until he uttered that word. She clasped the chunky, silver rondure on her finger and began to twist it.
      “I always wanted a cat,” she said, “now I have three, come on kitties.”



Nouns:         1) rondure     2) comportment      3) tic

Verbs:          1) chunk         2) inveigle                3) fluctuate

Adjectives:  1) orotund      2) vituperative       3) inveterate

Thursday, 23 January 2014

Thursday Threads You Can't Run Away Screaming Like A Little Girl

Mercedes watched the tall, handsome stranger enter the bar. Adrenaline flowed deep within her at the possibility, hoping he was the one as butterflies fluttered wildly within.
“Mercedes?” She could only manage a nod as the stranger sat. “You look absolutely delicious,” Adam whispered softly as her luscious, ruby red lips cupped  the rim of her glass and her sculpted cheeks flushed brightly.   
Her mobile invaded the intense moment. “Sorry, my friend, checking I’m not with a serial killer,” she joked as she reached for the phone but his hand reached it first.
“I don’t think you’ll  need this. It’s just you and me. Now, how about we take this upstairs and order room service.”
“You’re very forward.”
“Just like what I see and know what I want,”  he replied. She felt his eyes wander, lingering over her body as he stood, reaching out for her hand. They left the bar, with him escorting her by the elbow. “Just so you can’t run away screaming like a little girl,” he warned, clutching Mercedes tightly, leading her to his room.
“I’ve never done this before,” Mercedes admitted breathlessly as he caressed her neck with feather like kisses as he kicked the door shut.

“Shit,” Adam moaned, eyeing the time. “We’re late picking up the kids.”
“Talk about spoiling the mood.”
“There’ll be other times for role plays Alice or shall I call you Mercedes? Now get your arse up before we have to explain to my mother why we’re late.”

  Written for Siobhan Muir's Thursday Threads over at The weird, the Wild and the Wicked   

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

Five Sentence Fiction Clutch

Josie hadn’t realised her newly polished nails dug deep into the fleshy stems despite the thorns puncturing her skin causing thin trails of blood to trickle down her wrist, forming tiny droplets that fell unseen onto her silk dress. She clutched her father’s arm, pulling back slightly in her hesitancy to complete the short walk to the new chapter in her life; he patted her hand gently, giving her a reassuring smile, remembering well the nerves that toyed with his emotions thirty years ago.

Closer she walked, not registering the friendly faces gazing upon her, not seeing the smiling face of her groom, not hearing the music over the wild, erratic beating of her heart. Instead, etched on her eyes, words not meant for her, words now spiralling around her head, words digging deep like a blade.

“Nothing needs to change between us Aaron, just cos you’re getting hitched lol,” were the fracturing words Josie read on the way to the church, ”I’ll be waiting Babes, love Amy.”

Written for Lillie Mcferrin's Five Sentence Fiction where you can read all the other stories for this week's prompt- clutch.

Thursday, 16 January 2014

Thursday Threads You Need To Focus

Of all the times for grocery shopping to pop into Chloe’s head, now wasn’t the greatest. What was it her boss said, always said with gritted teeth?
“You need to focus, Chloe. It’s the only thing that’s letting you down but it’s a biggy. Mind on the target or find yourself another agency.”
Chloe inhaled deeply. She emptied her head of all that was important to her and focused her mind on the job in hand; that was all that mattered now in this world. Targets. And accuracy.

Candles, pink icing.

Shaking her head, Chloe tried to remove all thoughts of her daughter’s upcoming 8th birthday celebrations which under normal circumstances would be a priority. But this was work. It didn’t help that her hand ached; maybe she could claim for repetitive strain injury. That would sort out the bill for the new kitchen. There she was again, going off on a tangent. Sipping her water, she abruptly stopped.
Alert and focused.
Adrenalin pumping.
On the target. 
Lining up her sight.
Finger on the trigger.
Right between the eyes.
And pulled.

Filled with apathy, she watched as the target’s head exploded into fragments looking like confetti as he slumped to the ground, crimson quickly pooling around him.
By the time passers-by ran to his aide, Chloe was in her car, heading towards the supermarket after a job well done and with the bonus of finishing earlier than expected.  
Now there was plenty of time for candles and pink icing.

Written for Siobhan Muir's The Weird, the Wild and the Wicked

Wednesday, 15 January 2014

Five Sentence Fiction Moon

Bit late as been a busy week. But on the plus side, new 5sf out tomorrow. Hope you like this one based on moon. xxx

I have no one for company until the Man in the Moon appears and  views my desperate situation.
I stare back, his serene glow wrapping me in peacefulness as I momentarily forget my shivering, painful body, and the fact I will be dead by the time the moon’s sister comes up for the third time, spreading her suffocating warmth. My hand bobs in the cool water, soothing my red raw skin as the gentle lapping against my raft  brings a tranquil melody to my end song. No regrets swamp me, not even being on the cruise liner; I wanted peace and quiet and relaxation and looking up at the shining light in the pitch, I know I now have it.

And I know I am not alone, will not die alone as the Man in the Moon stays with me, bringing out the stars to serenade my passing.  

Written for  Lillie Mcferrin's Five Sentence Fiction where you can read all the other stories. xxx

Tuesday, 14 January 2014

Daily Picspiration Love, Honour and Obey

My Daily Picspiration piece is live. You can read it here or click on the link where you will find other brilliant stories from wonderful writers. xxx

Title: Love, Honour and Obey

I’m such an idiot! The point of storming off is to get away from him, as far as possible so he can show at least one ounce of worry. But no. I’m storming off in the wrong direction. In my defence, my eyes are swimming in tears and I’m raging silently so direction isn’t really on my mind. Just away from him. That worked really well. Now I’ve come to the end of the short (rather pointless) jetty. My pride is stopping me turning back. Anyway, I know he’s there, somewhere and he’ll see me and then it’ll start again.
This is good; for now.

The turquoise waters stretch before me, shallow enough in places to see the sandy bottom where sea cucumbers rest and the odd fish darts in and out amongst the timber. I should feel serene, relaxed, in heaven.
But I don’t.
Right now I feel like I could scream.
Maybe I should. I bet I’ll feel a whole lot better.
My scream is as loud as I can possibly make it, so loud it feels like it’s ripping my throat to shreds.
I’m not sure how I feel now, apart from a sore throat.

Footsteps are coming up behind me. I know it’s him and my body tenses. Is that right? Should my body tense up on the approach of my husband on our honeymoon? He isn’t saying anything as he stands behind me. A sudden feeling of vulnerability sweeps over me. The silence seems to last an uncomfortably long time. But I’m not going to make the first move. He was the one wrongly accusing me of flirting and eyeing up the barman as he expertly made us our cocktails. He was the one gripping my wrist, leading me away from the bar. He was the one who calmly yet coldly starts laying down his expectations for his wife, his wishes which seems more like demands to me. He was the one who starts telling me how to dress; my shorts far too short, in fact how my whole wardrobe needs to change.
That’s why I stormed out. He made me feel small and worthless.
And now he is behind me, waiting for me to no doubt apologise. Well, he has a long wait.

I swing my feet in the lukewarm waters, looking carefree, wishing I felt the same way.
“Come back to the hotel now,” he says. I shiver. Still the coldness.
“Not until you apologise.”
“Apologise? I don’t think you heard me. Come back now.”
“Excuse me!” I swirl around, facing him, my husband, the stranger. He is staring, a small smile creeping across his face, reaching out his hand. I see the wedding band, glinting in the sun. Since I placed that band on his finger, Ross has changed to someone I don’t know anymore.

The signs were there right from the start when he stopped me from picking at the wedding cake we’d just cut by slapping my hand.I thought he was joking. Then there was Danny. I was dancing with Danny, my work colleague and Ross came over, taking hold of my wrist (a little too tightly) and pulling me away where he held me close to dance with him. I thought it was romantic but now I see he was controlling me like he’s doing now. I bet if I tell him I’m going out for a drink with Danny when we get back, he’ll say no.

“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself Josie.”
“I think you owe me an apology  Ross.” I stand firm but my legs feel like jelly. He walks closer to me, reaches out and touches my hands with his. Softly, he strokes with his thumb. He pulls me closer, leaning in. I feel his warm breath on my skin, his lips brush against my ear. I’m falling under his spell again. It’s not hard, I mean he’s my husband and I do love him.
“When I ask you to do something, I mean it!” he hisses, pressing his thumbs down harder, his nails digging into my soft flesh.
“You’re hurting me!” I say, trying to pull myself away.
“If I wanted to hurt you, I could,” he replies, still clutching my aching hands. “In fact, I could probably make you disappear right here, right now and no one would know. Just imagine,” he continues, turning me around, facing the sea, wrapping his arms around my body, still gripping my hands like a vice, “that beautiful clear, crystal blue water vanishing as your thick, rich blood flows out of you. I can do that Josie but I don’t want to. Don’t make me hurt you with your defiant ways, after all, you did promise to love, honour and obey.” He  rests his chin on my shoulder, swaying us both gently. “This is our honeymoon darling, I don’t want to fight.” He kisses me softly. “Come on, we have cocktails to finish.”

I don’t know why I let him take my hand. I am walking back with him, my stomach is churning. Did he just threaten to kill me if I wasn’t obedient to his will? We’re sitting at our table and he’s sipping his cocktail, looking relaxed.
“Go and see what snacks they have will you,” he says flatly. And it’s at that moment I know he means me to obey his every command or . . .
The image of a stained sea floods my mind and I’m leaving my chair to go and look at the menu.    


Monday, 13 January 2014

Race The Date #9 Bengal Tiger

The stream running through the jungle was a good place to stop and set up camp. It provided shelter as well as the perfect viewpoint. The tiger would soon approach to drink or even bathe. Cats not liking water was a myth as far as the tiger was concerned and Brad was sure he’d be near enough face to face with his prey.
Brad was used to waiting for his quarry.
His finger itched as it was poised, a practise for when a tiger came into view.
The setting was perfect and Brad found it hard to hide his excitement as a low growl reverberated through the jungle.
The jungle erupted in a cacophony of warning cries.
The tiger was near.
Through the long grass, Brad was sure he saw movement and he trained his eye, not moving an eyelash, afraid to breathe.
Brad was controlled, despite the adrenalin. He was only a matter of feet away from this magnificent animal, could see clearly the sparkling eyes, the huge padded paws.
Silently, the tiger stood. He seemed to be staring right at Brad. This was his only chance before the tiger would bolt into the undergrowth.
He aimed. His finger gently pressed down.
A gentle click.
The tiger yawned then skulked back into the jungle, leaving a deliriously happy Brad with the photo of a lifetime.



Monday Mixer

Shoulders hunched, sighing deeply, Pim raised his tankard,  gulping down the vapid beer in hope it would wash away his dreadful day. Being called a fatuous little man by the Queen was unfair, rattling him to the bone. It wasn’t his fault the Queen had a sense of humour failure. Telling her was a step too far but he couldn’t help himself. As court jester, he accepted being the butt of everyone's jokes but he didn’t have to accept rudeness.  
He felt his punishment, right across his fundament after an hour in the stocks where some cheeky ragamuffin whipped him so hard, he couldn’t sit down for a week.  
Laughter rang through the inn and Pim clenched his teeth, roughly torquing his cordovan until it split at the seems and his meagre coins spilt over the bar. Without warning, large, grimy hands swooped, grabbing the coins, pushing Pim to the floor, crying out as he made contact with the flagstones. No one helped him as he struggled to his feet, shuffling for the exit, consumed with pain and embarrassment.
“Oi! Thief!” the gruff voice of the barman shouted.
For the second time that day, Pim found himself in the stocks.  

200 words

Monday Mixer is hosted by Jeff Hollar over at The Latinum Vault. The idea is you choose a noun, verb and adjective from the list and include in a 200 (exact) word story. xx

Nouns:         1) fundament     2) cordovan      3) glurge

Verbs:          1) torque            2) truckle          3) vitiate

Adjectives:  1) vapid             2) expansive    3) fatuous

Monday, 6 January 2014

Moments 5 Sentence Fiction

It's been sometime since I wrote for 5 Sentence fiction and I've realised how hard it is getting back into it. I won't leave it so long next time as I try and find my way around this challenging fiction. This week is 'moments'. For other stories based on the prompt, visit, the home of 5 Sentence Fiction

There are rare moments when I still love you more than anything, more than anyone could possibly love another person; I wish I didn’t but I can’t help my heart.

There are raging moments when I imagine killing you with one sudden plunge of the kitchen knife, then all the pain and violence would be over; but the moment,  along with my will to live, is pummelled out of me.  

The lies would be over too; having to lie to my family and our own children that I walked into the door again, tripped over the skateboard, again; all would be over if only my self preservation lasted for more than a moment.

There are powerful but fleeting moments when I know I shouldn’t love you, that I should just pack up and leave, taking the kids with me somewhere where you can never hurt me again.

But then there are moments, like when you bring me a cup of tea, just how I like it, before  smiling at me with cold staring eyes as you return to your newspaper, that I know I can never have the strength or the courage to leave you.

Thursday, 2 January 2014

No Time For Tears Thursday Threads 102

Haven't written for Thursday Threads over at The Weird, the Wild and the Wicked by Siobhan Muir but with a new toy and still in the Christmas holidays, there is no excuse. Hope you like this little tale based on the prompt "No time for tears".

No Time For Tears

Jacob said there would be no time for tears. No time to mourn. No time to remember. But what else did we have if we didn’t have our memories? It was our memories that made us different to them. Them who ravaged everything with a pulse, my beloved Marley the latest victim of the insatiable need to feed.   

An uncontrollable shudder ran deep leaving my bones cold.

I needed to harden up in this new world; Jacob had said that too. And he was right. I wasn’t going to survive with my head full of cupcakes and fairy dust, even though a world filled with cupcakes and fairy dust brought miles of smiles.

I wanted to smile, remember, cry and mourn. I didn’t want to forget who I was just because the earth had turned topsy turvy; the dead now living, the living now dying slowly. Jacob called it survival. But what was survival if you forgot who you were and what made you human? What was the point if the death of a beloved pet didn’t mean anything?

I wasn’t sure this new world was worth surviving in if life was cheap and discarded so easily like yesterday’s newspaper.

The sun started bidding farewell. Darkness was our enemy along with apathy for our own soul it would appear, if Jacob was anything to go by.

I defied the darkness and defied Jacob as I gave way to my sorrow for Marley and made time for my tears.