Five Sentence Fiction Thief

Gossip

It was the same conversation, again and again, about the spate of burglaries in the town as Carly placed the drinks on the bar, accepting the barest of acknowledgements with payment.

She tried not to listen but couldn’t help overhearing about the worry of leaving the house for holidays, weekends away, trips to the supermarket,  or even the school run where the house was empty for just half an hour; that’s all it took to ravage a life of memories, trinkets, heirlooms that meant everything to the owner and nothing but a quick payday to the thief.

A wry smile crept over her face as she heard them declare how careful they were being in not blabbing about their plans, leaving lights on, using timers and asking the neighbours to keep watch. How safe they felt, discussing this in a pub where the drink loosened the tightest tongue, where they ignored the girl behind the bar constantly, never noticing how she listened intently, how she always wore the latest trainers, had perfectly manicured nails despite working the bar, and went to all the big gigs, all on her crappy wage.  

Carly made a mental note; number 42 away from Wednesday for three nights, a timer set, a spare key in the shed under the third pot; these people were stupid and Carly didn’t mind taking advantage of it.   

Thought it was about time I revisited Five Sentence Fiction with Lillie McFerrin. It's been a while but I've never forgotten it, just needed to be more organised. After all, my very first five sentence fiction inspired my debut novel. Good times.

Thanks for stopping by and reading. xxx

My debut novel available from Amazon UK

and Amazon US

My very first flash fiction and Five sentence fiction. Wicked which inspired my novel. xx

MWBB #25 Afro-Celt song Eireann; Echoing Song

Update on this piece, if you already didn't know (yeah right). It won and I get this rather nifty sparkly badge.

Phew, just in time for this week's Mid-Week-Blues-Buster- over at The Tsuruoka Files. The music this week was a gorgeous Afro-Celt song that whisked me away to this story; some of it based on fact . .  It reminded me of that time in the Irish pub . . . .Anyway, if you want to listen to the song called Eireann then please click the link and maybe listen as you read, as I listened as I wrote. Powerful stuff, music. xxx

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSqR1O1PDJU&feature=youtu.be

Echoing Song

Sipping on a glass of wine wasn’t exactly befitting the Irish pub in Camden Town but it didn’t matter how much Linda declared how smooth a Guinness was, she was sticking to her wine, although the Guinness did remind her of when she was a child, drawing a face in the thick froth of her dad’s pint.

She loved Thursday nights as after evening class, they would walk into the quiet pub for a cheeky drink before heading home. But it wasn’t quiet for long as spontaneously, people would start playing on their tin whistles and their bodhráns. Before long, fiddlers would join in and the atmosphere was electric, not electric enough for Isabel to try the Guinness but enough to ask to have a go at playing the bodhrán.  

“It’s all in the wrist,” the young man said with a thick Irish accent. And he proceeded to play, his wrist moving quickly as he created complex but beautiful rhythms.  Soon the other musicians joined in; there was no room for solos. The music echoed through the pub as it did through time. .  .

The wind whipped Isabel’s hair across her face as the salty sea air coated her pale skin. She picked up her long skirts and turned to face Adair.

“Is it true?” his voice was hoarse but rose against the howling wind. “Did you bed my brother whilst I was away, fighting, for you!”

“You weren’t fighting for me! You’re fighting for glory, to show your father you’re the one who should lead the clan.”

“Is it true!”

“No!” She turned back towards the sea; as angry as her as it bashed against the rocks into a fine spray.

“Then why does Tristan mock me with these taunts? Why does Morrigan say so?”

“Morrigan? You believe the words and gossip from a mad woman?”

“She is not mad! She is wise and sees all, Isabel! Why would she say that if there was not the truth?” Isabel walked along the cliff edge, wanting to be far from Adair. The rocks were slippery but her footing was strong and sure. “Isabel? Please, we must talk about this.” He was behind and his large hand gripped her arm. She shrugged him off, not realising the rock she was standing was lose. A scream pieced through the wind as Adair quickly reached out, gripping her wet hand. “Isabel, don’t struggle, stay calm.” He heaved, pulling her up, but only where her head just peeked above the cliff top. His eyes were wild, demanding.

“Please! Adair!”

“Tell me the truth!”

“I have! Please get me up!”

“Morrigan says otherwise, your eyes betray you, your heart is with Tristan! I shall kill him but first,” he loosened his grip and as Isabel shrieked, he let go, watching her tumble to the rocks below, laying broken before the hungry waves took her.  . .

“Isabel!” Linda’s voice was shrill as she shook Isabel by the arm. “I was saying how nice the guy on the drum is. He likes you!”

“What?” she was dazed, confused. The dream had felt so real. She was trembling with fear and cold. She had felt the sea on her face. She licked her lips and tasted the salty sea. “I think I need to go home. I don’t feel well.”

“Ah come on girl,” the man playing the bodhrán said. “Stay for another!” His blue Irish eyes twinkled.  Isabel couldn’t refuse as another wine was placed in front of her. “Your friend was saying  you’d like to learn the bodhrán properly? I can teach you.” She nodded feebly.  “Tristan,” he held out his hand. Isabel stared at him, the eyes were deep and intense and she felt like she knew them, trusted them as she held out her hand, not wavering from the intensity of his gaze. “Just don’t tell my brother, Adair. He likes to do all the teaching, especially with someone as pretty as you.” He kissed her shaking hand as Isabel lifted her gaze to the dark eyes of Adair; the same eyes who let her fall to the rocks below.

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